


Drown Your Sorrows

by the_demi_modest



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but don’t say fluff to Hastur’s face), America, Arson, Arson again because Hastur likes arson, Bleeding, Blood, Camping, Chronic Pain, Cookout, DO NOT try this at home kids—you are not immortal!, Death, Excessive Drinking, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Garth Brooks - Freeform, I actually have no idea if this counts as smut, Jeremiah 8, M/M, Multi, Other, RV, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Scars, Sex, Sexual References, Sightseeing, Threats, Violence, because this is all about the feelings!, broken beloveds, but Bee & Gabe get a close second, discussion of past violent abuse, excessive on-screen substance abuse, frienemies-to-lovers, general warnings for addiction, guest appearance by Pestilence, he/him for Hastur, he/him for Ligur, mention of colonization, mention of the US opioid crisis, most anatomic details are only implied though, my favorite disaster couple, no Ligur until the end because I don't want to screw up, on-screen supernatural power abuse, please let me know if you need me to add more tags, pronouns are flexible but mostly:, roadtrip dramedy, she/her for Michael but also they/them, somewhat graphic descriptions of old wounds, they/them for Beelzebub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_demi_modest/pseuds/the_demi_modest
Summary: Hastur and Michael, disaster couple, road trip the US in an RV looking for their lost boyfriend while the devil tries to restart the end of the world.Over the course of the story, most angels and demons realize they were assholes, learn to check their immortal privilege, and come to acknowledge and accept care for their war wounds while also trying to move past what roles heaven and hell forced on them in the 6,000-year war.
Relationships: Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Gabriel & Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur/Michael (Good Omens), Uriel/Sandalphon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. No Balm in Gilead

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a comfort fic to work on during writer's block. If I'm missing any tags, please let me know so I can add them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Hastur commiserate—with lots and lots of alcohol, among other things.

_Prologue:_ [[X](https://roseeddystone.wordpress.com/2020/03/11/a-psalm-for-the-director-on-broken-strings/)]

* * *

_The Greeks had a story that the first lovers were two-faced beings, cut into pieces to make men and women._

_The ancient Greeks, the so-called philosophers anyway, had known nothing of love._

_Nothing in love is clean-cut, certainly not in people._

_If they’d known how light breaks and converges, they wouldn’t have limited their thinking. They should have spent more time with the poets, but one of them thought he already was one._

_But they got one thing right. Love is about wounds. And not so small a thing as only one._

* * *

_T_ he war was canceled.

The reasons were hard to argue with. Heaven and Hell knew this because they had  _ tried _ .

Attempts at revenge towards those responsible backfired, due to what most could only assume was Divine Intervention, because neither party had been involved. 

At last, stunned, every angel and every demon dragged themselves from the hollowed out stages of failed spectacle, back to their offices, to their cubicles, and to their desks, but there was nothing left to do. You spent so long winding the spring, didn’t you? When the tension broke, you couldn’t help but feel empty, could you?

* * *

_T_ hey say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. 

They are wrong.

Pain hangs on. It holds hostages among the neurons. It maintains its shapes through memory. It stitches itself in with scars. The Fall hadn’t killed the demons of hell. But it had left them plenty of reasons to hate heaven. Because what doesn’t kill you does not make you stronger. It makes you broken. It makes you cautious. It makes you tired. 

Bitter, too. 

The sun was setting. Somewhere on earth, hell’s door opened on a forest that no mortal ever found their way out of. And Hastur, formerly a duke of hell, shivered with clenched teeth in the white-capped waters of Mnemosyne. He was washing up. 

He’d tried the Styx long ago. It had been the first attempt to kill the pain, but the immortal wounds came back as scarred as before, as they would with every attempt thereafter. Still optimistic back then, Lethe had been next. Hastur had thought, at least he might forget the cause. But still the wounds hadn’t mended, and not understanding them had turned out to be worse. So at last, he had settled on Mnemosyne, a place to reflect, to remember. It was as decent a water as any for cleaning out wounds that never healed. 

What doesn’t kill you does not make you stronger. But incurable pain can still be _managed_. Clean it all up and it won’t be so bad, at least for a little while. Not that Hastur would have let any other demon—but one—know he relied on a thing that was next to godliness.

Presently, Hastur hunkered down among the reeds. He clawed his nails into sores and broken scabs to clear out the horrible stinging grit. He scrubbed everywhere until it hurt, until the wounds leeched fresh, dark blood into the fast white-capped water. During the rebellion long ago, he’d taken a sword to the thigh. (He had taken a head in turn.) He’d lost a chunk of skin off his arm in the aftermath, too, on the sharper rocks in hell. These and other pains had become a part of his existence ever after. At best, the pain shrunk into knots in the scars and sores that remained, only to bloom fresh and lancing in moments he let his guard down.

The worst one, or arguably the worst up until a few days ago, was from a thing that was no longer there, not technically. This pain sat in its place between his shoulders, just out of reach. 

Today it had competition with another absence.

Ligur was dead.

Hastur couldn’t stop thinking about it. All his anger had no one to run after. All his hatred had no one to wound. There had been a murder trial in hell for it. It had _failed_ , even after heaven hadn’t sent just any mere messenger to witness. Even after heaven had sent the archangel Michael _in person_ to testify.

Hastur tried telling himself he was glad about the last part, because he was a demon, because seeing one of “the enemy” in pain thrilled him. But he hadn’t felt thrilled. 

Because this sort of pain shared didn’t split. It doubled.

Nearby, Hastur’s familiar, Lily, waddled happily into the river shallows. The oversized bullfrog was pleased as punch on washing days. She deserved a holiday, Hastur decided, now that days off would be plenty and to spare. Immortal animals never worried about the end. Shouldn’t have to. Not like demons did.

Hastur sat down on a log—heavy with too many thoughts. He wore a ring under his gloves. It gleamed when he peeled them off. He slid it free and turned it in his fingers as the water rushed cold past his calves. From his scuffed up appearance no one would think he owned something so nice, or even suspect.

He thought about throwing it away, but it wouldn’t make his feelings less complicated.

Demons betrayed each other all the time. It kept things interesting. Humans married. It was their construct. One way they defined loyalty. But immortals made vows. Hastur and Ligur’s vows had been simple: “To deny before all others lest death do us part.” You didn’t use too many words when you were thinking about forever. Too much could happen. Forsaking all others hadn’t even come to the table, and yet… 

_“An angel? An_ arch _angel?”_

Maybe he couldn’t hate Ligur for wanting some light. He couldn’t hate Ligur at all in fact, even when he wanted to now. Anything would hurt less than the pain of loving someone who wasn’t there anymore. 

_“I like her,”_ Ligur had answered. _“You would too.”_

Hastur… did. It only took pride to walk into hell unfallen and unafraid. But it took guts to wear the hate you got for it like a crown, and no small amount of hypocrisy to bring the punishment for a crime you and your own lover were guilty of. What it took to look your fellow lover in the eye and, without anger, bare your grief though—Hastur still did not know. He hadn’t had it in him, hadn’t known what it would look like looking back.

What had Ligur’s vows to Michael been? 

Time marched on without rhyme or reason. Hastur put the ring back on and pressed his lips hard against its metal until they hurt.

_Should have followed out. Made sure that holy jerkoff is okay._

“Duke Hastur, is that you?”

 _Speak of an angel?_ He looked up and pretended not to know “Who’s there?”

He heard fingers snap and a bit of light fell on the shore. Startled, Hastur looked over one shoulder. 

Standing in the halo was Michael. The angel was staring across the water. They’d been assigned a traditional “female” shape this century, but Ligur had once mentioned they answered to he and him upstairs and she and her down here, and everything in between whenever they very well pleased. However presented, Michael was copper-haired and smartly dressed, with a pretty little mouth that knotted when it smiled, like it was trying not to laugh. 

There hadn’t been any smiling at the trial, of course. 

Hastur asked, “You’re still here?” He bit back the reflex of a damning insult, knew it was the wounded animal in him. When he looked away, the angel’s afterimage burned in his mind like it had back at court. That meant something. He didn’t want to think of what it meant, but it did. He hunkered down among the reeds, suddenly too aware of his open wounds. 

“That _is_ you?” Michael asked.

“You have good eyes.”

“I have good everything.”

If he’d been in a better mood, he might have made a crass joke. 

He didn’t feel like laughing.

“Thought you’d popped off home by now.” He clawed up the river mud and set to work like a paver laying cement in an approaching storm. In hell, you never let anyone see your scars, demon or angel, even if something in an angel’s presence was soothing. You didn’t allow yourself to hope. Someone might see the opening, be holding a knife, ready to dig in and make you scream. 

“What are you doing?” Michael asked.

“Washing up.”

“With mud?”

“I do what I like.”

“I suppose there’s nothing else to do.”

“Sure there is,” he said.

“Like what?”

Hastur spat in the river. A decent demon would have spit at the angel next. But Hastur didn’t feel decent today. He felt raw and lonely and curious, and there was a light in his mind even when he looked away and that _meant_ something, promised hope, but— _Damn, get_ that _out of your eyes before you look_.

Turning around, he rolled down his sleeves, let the muddy water hide the poor state of his shins and feigned indifference. 

He said, “Nothing you’d care for.” 

The angel seemed to be sizing him up, so he did likewise. He knew he’d always been a soggy, scarecrow of a demon, bleached like a corpse from lack of sun, eyes dark and unfathomable as the pit. It was the aesthetic: the better to unsettle mortals with their fear of inevitable death. Michael, on the other hand, had worn many colors and shapes across the centuries, some petite and frail, others broad and daunting. But there was always a mole by their right eye like the memory of a tear. Man or woman, between or beyond, the angel was never without it and Hastur always looked for it before anything else. You could value sameness, be glad of it, when nothing else stopped changing. 

Michael said again, “Like _what_? I want to know.”

Hastur said, “You wouldn’t like it.”

“You assume much.”

“If you have to know,” said Hastur, looking back at the reeds, “my plans for the rest of eternity include too much drink, too much weed, and, if I can find the time and the company, a _lot_ of rough and dirty sex.”

“So,” said Michael, “like a Thursday.”

Hastur didn’t know what to say to that.

Michael added, “That was a joke.”

“I don’t care for jokes.”

“You’re lying.”

Hastur gestured to the general vicinity (especially downwards) and then to himself. “Demon,” he pointed out. “What’s your _Wednesday_ like then?” he asked.

“I had nothing on my calendar after Armageddon. We’re all being let go.”

“Just like that?”

“Hell, too. Beelzebub and I just sent word to resources.”

Hastur felt an unexpected pang of relief. Let go? Let _go_? Did this angel have any idea what that meant down _here_? He almost forgot to despair, but remained wary. What did it mean to an angel, after all? 

“Why?” he asked neutrally.

“It seemed for the best. The afterlife’s automated. War’s off forever. Humans can work things out for themselves. Now we’re all just waiting on Eric and Sefriel to send out the pink slips.”

_It couldn’t be that easy? What are they planning to do when he finds out?_

“Well,” he said, “thanks for letting me know. Good luck listening to the _Sound of Music_ for the rest of eternity then.”

“I’m not that kind of angel.” 

Hastur coughed. “Look,” he said, “this might be a first, but I’m… sorry for what I said back there. In front of the court. Didn’t want to seem too… chummy…, given the circumstances.”

“Perfectly understandable. Thank you.”

The gratitude was a surprise. Hastur cleared his throat. “So, um, given we’re both… let go… what does that make you?”

“Curious.”

“How so?”

“Do you…?” Michael squared her shoulders and crossed her arms. “Do you think he’s alive?”

“No.” Hastur scoffed because hope hurt. “But you two were really together, huh?”

“Yes. While you two were.”

“And you knew.”

“I found out.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No. Does it bother you?”

“No.” _Not for reasons you’d understand anyway_ , Hastur thought. _Did he tempt you like he did me? “Hey, Hastur, I found a way to stop the pain, just for a little while. Anyone catches us, we tell them we’re inventing temptations.”_

How do you tempt an angel anyway? Beg them for mercy?

Michael didn’t miss his silence, asked, “Are you lying?”

“Why would I?”

She repeated his gesture, point for point, and said, “Demon. And a duke besides.”

“Ex-duke, apparently.” 

“And you were his first?”

“He was my only.”

“Does it bother you?”

Hastur took a few more moments to brush at his muddy palms. He bit his lip and tasted blood. She hadn’t even named Ligur, but neither had he. They were on the same page then, whatever book this was.

“I don’t think he’s alive,” he said. “I was there when… He was very much… He’s dead.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry. If I had known, I would never have called—”

“None of that,” Hastur snapped. “I hate a martyr. The whole world got a restart but he hasn’t come back. There’s only one person whose fault that is.” 

Michael drew a shaking breath. She nodded a few times, almost to herself. “Then, well…” She squared her shoulders. “Well, then why not get plastered?” she said. “That _is_ the term, isn’t it?”

“One of ’em,” said Hastur. “I prefer the term _shit-faced_.”

“They’re not the same thing?”

“No,” he said. “Plastered sounds like cleaning up. When you’re shit-faced, you make a mess.”

“So if I go get… worse than plastered, would you want to come with me?”

Hastur eyed that mole again. He couldn’t deny the truth. (Maybe to everybody else, but not to himself.) This grief in his veins was poison. Angels and demons both had made it past the End of the World, except for one. And that mattered, on a personal level. And there was only one other person who’d understand why.

“Yeah, a’right.” Hastur slogged out of the river, shaking down his trouser cuffs as he went. He threw on his coat with a muddy flourish as he strode past the wayward angel. “But I’ve got six thousand years’ backpay. You’ve probably donated all your wages to charity?”

“As befits the righteous.”

“Screw the righteous. Long live the miserable. If I’m coming, I’m buying.”

But he snapped his fingers first, and put out the light. 

* * *

_T_ he mortal liver can build up a fortitude against alcohol. It does, however, reach a breaking point. 

The story of Prometheus correctly suggests that immortal livers don’t.

Michael and Hastur went to several bars, averaging approximately one every thirty-four minutes. They did not go as an angel and a demon but as two business-looking people clearly off the clock and on a bender. By one o’clock in the morning, they had used up the entirety of Oxfordshire’s vodka reserve and were working on the whiskey because, to quote, “Screw Oxfordshire.”

“With a cactus,” one of them added on the seventeenth toast. Neither could later remember who. It had been pretty early in the evening, and they did it for every toast after all the way back to London.

They toasted heaven and hell. They cursed the traitors. They blessed the Patriarch Noah for figuring out how to rot grapes—and brains, and livers. Then they stumbled off to the next bar to do it all over again. Somewhere after two a.m., they staggered down an alley between bars, and Hastur dug for his stash and took a moment to clear his head. As the muddle thinned, he remembered his manners.

“You take?” he asked, offering the rolled stub. 

“I can’t do ill… ill-leaky… I can’t do non-lawful stuff.” Michael looked rather proud of herself that all the sounds out of her mouth had been real words. 

Hastur stuck the blunt in his teeth and rolled a second to match. “It’s medicinal,” he said. 

“Liar.”

“Test it. Testing’s allowed.”

Her tap neatly shoved him at the wall. Hastur winced as his coat took most of the blow instead of his scarred back. Michael ignored the offer, leaned in and caught his blunt in her teeth, Eyes on his, she tugged it from his lips, turned it around with her tongue and lit the end with a spark from her thumb. Hastur stared, his head muddled by the smell of perfume.

“Damn me,” Hastur whispered.

“Damn yourself, I’m retired.” Michael stepped back. He could still feel the ghost of those hands though and found himself fascinated by her fingers.

She took a drag and sighed it out. “I see now,” she said. “Very medicinal.”

“Yeah, and we’re both sick.” He stole it back and she laughed for no reason.

This answered a long-standing question of his, whether angels could be heard on another kind of high.

There were at least a dozen other bars after that, which meant a lot of drinks and a lot of snacks besides, because the downside of his “medicine” was it made you peckish. By the end of it, neither Michael nor Hastur were in any state to drive (or fly for that matter), and shared no desire to sober up. They called an Uber and, between the drunk angel clumsily trying to bring out the best in everyone and the drunk demon trying poorly to tempt the world to rage, they averaged a three-star rating.

Hastur would have preferred a shady inn, ideally with uncanny stains in at least one of its stairways, but instead the two of them stumbled into and through Chinatown towards a vague glare of neon. As the world started to blur, they settled on a place called the XO Hotel because it didn’t call itself a _motel_ and Michael refused to go to a place called a motel (and that was stupid and, why, _yes_ , Hastur was going to make fun of her for that and, _fine_ , he’d go, but the little pink hearts on the sign were stupid).

“Bet he never took you to places so nice,” Hastur cracked.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” She gave Hastur a pull and they staggered into the lobby. 

Michael was polite if not inarticulate at the front desk, and Hastur had expected as much. The angel miracled some luggage down by their feet for the sole purpose of tipping the young man in charge of carrying it (since he was “working his way through college,” she muttered, when Hastur demanded to know why).

Not that college had mattered last week when the fire and fish were raining on the motorway and the world had nearly come to an end. It was nice to think the two of them were adjusting so well to that fact. It had only taken most of two counties’ alcohol.

Since _clearly_ Hastur had to shoulder the burden of being a pain-in-the-neck, he held them up by insisting on a couple of toothbrushes at the front desk just as the elevator arrived. He shoved them into his back pocket. 

The elevator ride made Hastur seasick. He stumbled out as the doors opened, and puked on a potted plant. Michael dragged him upright again, and they staggered down the hall ahead of the bellhop, who didn’t remark. When they arrived at the door, the angel laughed loud enough to wake the dead, or at least anyone who actually bothered to sleep here. 

“Room 6-6-6? A bit on the nose, you filthy imp. Was Room 13 taken?”

“I’m filthy?” Hastur lowered his voice. “I distinctly remember a certain angel flirting shamelessly with a priest at the bar.”

“I was being friendly.”

“You called him a man of _the cloth_ —”

“That is the _proper_ term.”

“Bet they pray about it though.”

“I’ll have you praying in a minute, you filthy, treacherous…”

“I’d like to see you try.”

The door had one of those card key locks. It took several tries and a lot of shoving before card-sliding and door-shoving coincided in a timely enough manner to let them in. It didn’t help that they were trying to use the two key cards at once. The bellhop rubbernecked all the way back up the hall like he was watching a trainwreck, because he was.

Hastur fumbled at the lights and missed them entirely. He kicked the luggage into nonexistence as Michael staggered in after him, clinging to his shirt. They slammed into a wall as the door shut. Darkness clamped down on everything. 

Hastur forgot about the lightswitch. A thousand nerve endings jolted from a drunk muddle and in the dark drew an electric silhouette of Michael’s edges softening against his skin.

“You damn angel,” he gasped.

“You _damned_ angel,” Michael slurred back. 

“So, um… I had a to-do list.”

“You mentioned something about screwing the righteous.” 

“Where would we find one of those?”

Michael stepped back and fumbled a hand at the wall until it hit the switch. She staggered further into the room, took in the pink sheets, the stock art, and the cigarette burns on the carpet. “You need me to take the sofa?”

Hastur peeled himself off the wall and some sense came back. He tugged at his jacket, his sleeves, watched as Michael stripped off her overcoat and vest. She tossed them on the luggage rack. Her blouse was all frills. Hastur could almost feel them between his fingers already.

“It _is_ Thursday now,” he pointed out.

“It _is_ , isn’t it? And look at us, not mortal enemies.”

“Not immortal enemies. Hold that thought…” Hastur staggered at a needle between his eyes. He stumbled into the bathroom, fighting his way out of his coat. He turned back the lid of the toilet just in time to promptly get sick in it. 

Michael followed. Hastur felt hands gather back his meager hair, failed a wave to shoo her off.

“I got this.”

“You got me. Don’t be a fool.”

He heaved again.

“Just miracle yourself sober.”

“Do you want to be sober right now, Mick?”

“Don’t call me Mick.”

“Mike? Misha? _Michelle_?”

“Michael. And I don’t ever want to be sober again.”

“But you’re sure you want to be drunk with me?”

“I’m careful about who I get drunk with.”

Hastur put his head on the side of the bowl. “Usually, you mean?”

She patted his shoulder. “Always.”

“I thought you’re supposed to be all clean and pure, and full of grace and shit.”

“I’m not that kind of angel.”

“You might still be full of shit.”

“No more than you are.” 

“I’ll drink to that in half a moment, when I—” At which point Hastur pulled himself up and retched again.

He endured her fingers in his hair and her hold on his shoulders as he gagged. It was a practical thing, but also a kindness, and painfully familiar. Ligur had done that, too, ever since the time Hastur had passed out on the floor and heaved up a mess in his sleep. Drowning on puke was no way to die, more embarrassing than being killed by an angel. You had to write it on the paperwork for starters. Then everyone at the office knew. Hastur leaned back—carefully—on her hands.

“Damn shit, we’re retired.”

“ _That’s_ what’s making you sick?”

“There are so many things.”

It was a blissful distraction, the way her hands slid down his arms, then along his ribs, finding the knots in his muscles so easily and working them loose. He hadn’t expected gentleness from an angel, hadn’t realized how starved he was for touch before now. The feeling fought with his grief. It was too soon for solace wasn’t it? To let someone into that ripped and ragged space? But he felt hollowed out. It was the nature of the vacuum to be filled. _Yesterday_ wasn’t soon enough.

“Michael?”

“It’s alright, let’s take a breather.”

She carefully withdrew and walked back into the room, where she cranked the heater against the chill. Hastur watched as she turned on the television and hit the mute button. On the screen was a car chase and things were blowing up, which probably meant it was one of five hundred movies made in the past decade that ignored the failing infrastructure in a certain western country. Michael kicked off her trousers, peeled her stockings, and then flopped back onto the bed in just a shirt and tight shorts.

Hastur swallowed hard, then said, “I thought you were taking the sofa.”

“Eventually.” She groaned, “Ug, I smell like paint thinner. Did we drink paint thinner?” 

Hastur felt his insides settle and watched her, the beer slouching about in his veins like a bad idea. He pulled himself up at the sink, ran the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. His pulse was all over the place, which was uncanny since strictly he didn’t need one. “We drank Mad Dog, I think. Between the shots…”

“Nah, paint thinner would taste better than Mad Dog. Was it the gin?” Michael stared at the ceiling, her chest heaving, her legs sprawled. Bits of gold gleamed in lines, spirals, and jagged bolts across her skin. Having never seen the angel in anything less than full regalia, the sight made Hastur’s body do all kinds of things he’d never admit to under oath. (He’d lie under oath on principle, but still…) 

Hastur rinsed his mouth a few times, then spit vindictively at the sink. His skin felt like fire.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said. 

“Don’t fall down the drain.”

Hastur snapped and the lights went out. Michael snapped and they came back on. Hastur shut the door as she stuck out her tongue, and for some reason that made him grin back like an idiot. He had wanted someone to suffer with. The laughter was a surprise. 

But once the door was shut, he frowned. He caught his breath, then leaned over the tub fumbling for the shower knob. (Why were hot and cold never labeled clearly? How was anyone supposed to see…?) He cranked the lever from red into blue, stared at the fresh flow of water as it flashed against porcelain white. Then he shut his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” he muttered to himself. “Don’t be an idiot.”

It was just drinks, wasn’t it? She was just being kind. Angels did that. They were kind.

Hastur stripped completely, kicked his clothes to one side. At the mirror, he looked at himself, took in the whole mess of him, patched with blisters, rumpled with scars. The worst of his sores were bright red—rough and raw and weeping. 

There was a word for this in the Bible. (All demons study the Bible.) That word was _unclean_. Unclean things didn’t have social circles. They didn’t get feasts or families. They didn’t get love, except from other unclean things, and what came of that love was unclean too—could be for generations. 

Unclean things lived in the gutter with the rest of the waste, wrecked by blood and pus and ichor. You could wash all you liked, but the wounds would still fester. The Author of Life was up there on the hilltop, blessing the priests or whatever. If you didn’t cure, that meant She had abandoned you, left you to suffer. Fucked up that was. Everyone else got to keep their ugliness inside.

_No angel would want this._

Hastur pulled down a washcloth and tore open a pack of soap. He stepped into the shower and smothered the cloth in suds, then scrubbed until the drain spiraled with red-black runoff. 

Two washings in one day. He didn’t need it, not really, but undying pain could never be staved enough, and he felt like a mess.

There was no cooling mud here, so when the flood ran clear, Hastur cut the water and stood dripping awhile behind the curtain. At last he threw a towel across his stinging shoulders and stepped out onto the cold floor. His trousers had survived much of the night’s abuse, so he dried off and threw them on commando style. Then he wrestled one of the toothbrushes from its plastic to fight the fuzz in his mouth. His obeisance at the toilet had sobered him up. He was going to need more alcohol to survive the night. 

As he ran the tap, Michael staggered back in. She crowded him at the sink.

“You didn’t drown,” she observed.

Hastur pulled the towel across his chest and mumbled around the toothbrush, “You’re still awake?”

She ignored the question, unwrapped a fresh bar of soap. “Help me in?”

He took her hand. He watched her step over the rim of the tub, and he checked the fingers. No ring.

“Can I have my hand back?” she asked.

“What if I need it?” he muttered haplessly.

“I’ll lend you two. Just be a minute.” And she let her hair down. 

“Damn me,” he muttered again. 

“Off the clock.” She snapped the curtain between them, all those bits of gold sparkling, then tossed her shirt over the rail. 

Hastur felt dizzy staring at it. “Yeah, well, hurry up,” he said, backing out. “It’s not fun sobering up alone.”

“So don’t.”

Hastur staggered out into the room and dropped onto the bed to flip through the channels, his towel a blanket. His head was swimming. He shut off the television and rolled off the bed, then tugged open the mini-fridge. There he found a Toblerone, some mineral water, and promising cans of something stronger. He cracked a can of red ale open and threw it back like he was trying to drown.

Next he considered making mud of the potted plant in the corner of the room, but it was helping, letting his skin breathe. Hastur was a professional. He used to clock in at Hell early and stay late, and never waste a moment of overtime. But his wounds had always paid for it. Hell had claws. It knew how to keep you bleeding. Not like Earth. Lucky humans. They never knew how lucky.

“I should take the sofa,” he muttered, then lay on the bed. “Eventually.” He grabbed a second can and snapped off the lights. 

They’d talk, too. 

Soon enough.


	2. Fall Among Those Who Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: In which a satisfying understanding is reached

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for "on-screen" descriptions of wounds and some self-loathing that Michael is not going to put up with.

_W_ hen Hastur opened his eyes, the dim light in the room was gray and nail-sharp between his eyes. It made the blinds glow. 

Pain was waiting: a dogfight between the nail gun of a hangover and the cat o’ nine tails that were his collective wounds. His wrecked body was their battlefield. Hastur slid from the bed onto the floor and picked up a can of ale. Half-full. He threw the flat contents back, and waited for hair of the dog to scare the cats away. Then he gathered the bedsheet around him and staggered to the window to snap the blackout curtains shut.

Better.

Hastur stood a moment, waking through the pain. Dammit, those sheets had rubbed everything the wrong way. And he needed to take a piss. But for a moment he just let it all dawn on him. 

“Well, shit,” he gasped.

A bit of light went up behind him. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, wh—”

Michael was stretched out on the sofa. She’d taken the duvet and a pillow though. She was reading a book, or had been by the dawnlight. Now her halo was shining in her dark red curls. 

Hastur’s jaw dropped. “You… took the sofa.”

“I said I would.”

Hastur covered his shock with vinegar: “Are you reading the Gideon’s Bible in my presence?”

“Wouldn’t offend.” She turned the book cover towards him. “The Wisconsinites didn’t quite get as far as this part of London.”

Hastur winced and stepped forward. He stopped at the edge of the light, read the title. It wasn’t an uncommon book in hotels, but it was definitely not what he’d expected. “Are you allowed to stay in a hotel with the _Ka_ … without a bible in it?”

“Sex is a perfectly natural pastime, Hastur.”

“Perfectly natural?” His eyes widened. “Wait, we didn’t…?” His mind backpedaled.

“No. Although…” Michael looked back down at the book and her eyebrows peaked at something on the page, “I’m perfectly amenable if you are.”

Her hair was still tumbled about her shoulders. And she was wearing a hotel bathrobe and ostensibly nothing else. The robe was on brand, covered in little pink hearts. 

Hastur swallowed and pulled the sheet tighter around his shoulders, adjusting something so as not to betray himself. “You think a demon of hell would be _amenable_ to anything…”

“Yes.” She went back to turning pages. “Nice ring, by the way.”

Hastur made a fist without meaning to. “He ever give you one?”

“There wasn’t time.”

“It takes a minute.”

She turned another page. “He wanted you to be okay with it.”

“And there wasn’t time for that?”

“No.”

“But you were?”

“I was what?”

“Okay with it?”

“Yes.” She still didn’t look at him, but she was smiling. It was infuriating and he couldn’t understand why. The last thing he wanted was to be seen.

“What did he say?” asked Hastur.

“That we should meet. And… Hm.” Another page turned. She sighed a little. 

Hastur’s heart slammed against his chest like a prisoner trying to escape. He held his breath, held desire at arm’s length, tried to examine it. His mouth felt dry. “And _what_?”

“And that we might like each other.”

“Was he right?”

“I think so. Are you… ‘okay with it’?”

“You want to be with me?”

“If you’re amenable.”

“I… I have a headache.” Hastur stumbled toward the vague shadow of the bathroom door. Somewhere around here, he’d lost his shoes. He couldn’t remember where. 

He shut himself in.

Hastur was a glutton, always had been. Just a touch, just a taste, and he was desperate for more. It was not the satisfaction but the having that lured him.

But apparently he was a glutton for punishment, too.

The floor was still cold. Hastur curled his toes on the tiles and sighed roughly. Sex. Right. The third thing on the list. But of course, he’d drunken too much, smoked too much. The means to get past the pain sometimes robbed you of better pleasures.

It was probably for the best, he reasoned, _not_ to go in the first time in a drunken tumble, but why lie to himself? It could have been _good_. Sex was like the waters of Siloam, like wedding wine in Canaan, like every beautiful miracle a demon had to steal to enjoy. It could have been good, _very_ good. Maybe it still could be.

In the dark, Hastur cranked the shower to cold again. Three washings now. What if he came back to hell smelling of soap? Beelzebub would have questions, probably ask what the world was coming to.

Not an end for a start.

Hastur remembered he didn’t plan to go back. 

He took a deep breath and turned on the lights. 

“Shit.”

Today’s morning ritual would involve an additional dose of self-loathing, he decided. He’d probably left blood on the sheets.

_You’re lucky she didn’t get a good look at you. She still could see you. Clean up. Dress up. Get out, before…_

Hastur grabbed the soggy washcloth from the sink, stumbled into the shower, and scrubbed another bar of soap into oblivion. He thought of Ligur, sitting by the river with his back to the water. Grim, broad, and shameless, he’d sprung that confession or whatever it had been.

_“Take care of each other, won’t you, if it all goes south before the end?”_

Before the end. Fatalism was a demon’s only comfort. In the end nothing mattered.

 _“How?”_ Hastur had asked.

 _“However you like.”_ There’d been a certain grin.

Did an archangel need a demon’s care? Nothing caring about getting shit-faced. About getting high. About wanting sex and a side of sodomy… Hastur shook his head. He should be thinking of the best place to find some mud. Maybe see where Lily had gotten to. He should not be thinking about taking an angel to bed, how her skin might be cool like the morning, how her hair would be fine in his fingers…

Hastur’s stomach heaved and he swallowed hard. He staggered from the shower dripping wet, desperate for the toilet. 

The drink was no better coming up than it had been going down, but it was mostly ale this time. A bit more of the Mad Dog, a bit of gin, and, yes, something like paint thinner but bless Anyone if he knew when _that_ had happened. Good thing he was immortal.

Hastur coughed the last of the burning mess out, then cursed under his breath as his stomach kept heaving. 

“It’s all gone south, Ligur,” he muttered. “Gone right off the map.”

_“I want you to be happy.”_

_“I am happy.”_

_“Not happy enough.”_

By now, Hastur’s skin was itching, burning from memory alone, telling him to run, to hide. But he wanted to stay. Dammit all if last night he hadn’t felt a bit happy for the first time since…

Hastur ran the tap, grabbed a toothbrush. He sawed at his teeth until the bristles splayed. The best tormentors in Hell were the masochists. Hastur rinsed his mouth with water and spat blood.

Bent over the sink, he felt every scar burn. Sores gnawed. Boils wept. The overhead light felt twice as hot as it should have been. He reached for the towel on the floor, flinched, and dropped it again. 

_Just let it all breathe. Give it air…_

He thought of her hands on him in the alley, at the door, even on the floor when he’d first been sick. It was still Thursday. Had been since midnight. Would be until next. Yes, it was a joke, but if he could cut through the pain enough, if he could hide in the dark long enough, could they make good time?

_What the heaven are you thinking?_

No, he should run. With a thank you, of course, since he was a gentleman. She could have the Toblerone even. It probably wasn’t what Ligur had had in mind, but it was enough. Best not to push things. They could… maybe… someday…

…talk things out.

Hastur fished his trousers off the floor, stopped as time abandoned him and he had to stay still. Then, slowly, he moved a hand, then a shoulder, shifted an arm. He was taking stock of the pain, like he would for the rest of eternity, because he hadn’t died in a war to end everything.

The door opened and he bolted straight up and regretted it. Julius Caesar had had better days at the senate.

He said, “Damn.”

“What happened?”

He felt a touch, light on his back, and froze. “Shit.” In a panic, he waved a hand with a reckless miracle. The sharp motion sent every bulb in the hotel room shattering into darkness.

“Hastur…” Michael was carrying her own light. Hastur put his back to the sink, but the mirror left his misery on display.

He said, “It’s nothing.” What a stupid answer. Pain made it so hard to sound smart.

“My god…,” she whispered. “What the fuck happened?”

It was the first time he’d heard an angel swear sober.

“I, um, had the roots removed.” He gestured like it really was nothing. “Wing bones were all… splintery. Abaddon’s no surgeon, but those effing spars hurt worse than hell.”

“My g…”

“Don’t say ‘god’ again. I might be sick.”

“I’m just…” 

Hastur pulled himself up on the sink and pushed past her back into the bedroom, and back into the dark. “This is all an improvement, doll. I’m a demon”—He needed that towel or his shirt, something to cover up—“I don’t need the sky and I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not about pity. I…” He heard a sound like she’d bit her own hand to stop a scream. 

“Why are you damn surprised?” he asked. “You know how it all went down.” 

“I just mean, how the fuck couldn’t he tell me?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not disappointed. I’m, I’m… Look, I just…” Michael crossed the room to the fridge and opened it. At a pointed glance, the plastic water bottles turned into glass strawberry wine coolers. She wrenched off the cap of one and turned away. The light fell across her back and he realized she’d dropped her robe. He stared as she started to chug.

“Holy shit” he said.

“The holiest,” she muttered, and polished off the bottle. 

Just above Michael’s shoulder ran a deep gouge that looked wide as an ax wedge. Another track of red was etched all over her back, like someone had pinned her down and gone to town with a knife. There were more scars than that: every few inches was another red spiral or welt or hard white stitch of scarring where the seams had rejoined but not quite right 

Slowly, Hastur sank down on the side of the bed. “What happened?” 

“No one got out unscathed.”

“But that looks…” Hastur felt his own skin cringe in sympathy, something he’d forgotten he _had_.

“What’s it matter? _You_ lost your _wings_ ,” Michael said, turning around. 

Hastur looked away. He retreated across the bed, out of the light, feeling his skin crawl with clawing shame. “Why do you care?”

She gestured with the emptied bottle. “I mean…”

“Didn’t stop you lot from shoving us off cloud nine with the rest, did it?”

“No, and it was the stupidest thing I ever did.”

Hastur drew a big angry breath, and forgot why. His head swam. Michael’s words hadn’t seemed to line up right on their way into his ears. He tried turning them over, gave up. “What?”

“It was the start of creation. We had no idea what a _war_ was. I don’t even know how Lucifer came up with bloody swords. He just attacked, and we all joined in…”

“You’re not talking sense, Mick.”

“Michael.”

“So I fell. It’s old news. Not your problem. You’re Mommy’s favorite.”

“L-rd almighty, stop!” Michael tossed the empty bottle towards the bin and missed gloriously. “I get enough of that from Ligur.”

It hurt, hearing that name that raw from someone else. “Don’t talk like he’s still around.”

“Why the _fuck_ not?”

“Just… forget it.” _Idiot, idiot, idiot..._

Michael sat on the bed and put her back to him. “Can I see again?”

“Why?”

“I’m the patron saint of doctors, maybe I can… do something.”

“Fuck, doctors. I’ve got medicine.” Hastur snapped his fingers and opened the drawer of the bedside table. The pungent-sweet smell of hash wafted out and he sighed in welcome.

“You do that stuff a lot?” she asked quietly.

“Helps.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

“Hastur, Duke of Hell, you might have a problem.”

“Michael, Angel of _arch_ , weed addiction might be the least of them.” Hastur drew a shaky breath. He wanted to laugh, but this felt important. “What happened to you?”

“We all have them.”

“Angels don’t.”

“You’ve seen a lot of naked angels in six thousand years?”

He hadn’t.

“We just cover most, salve and paint the rest. It’s makeup.”

“Proof you won?”

“Proof we survived.” Her voice was still quiet. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Even Ligur’s seen them.”

Hastur felt something in him snap. He dropped back on the bed and curled into a ball. “But why the hell isn’t he back?”

Michael deflated too. “I don’t know.”

It made no sense. Somehow Armageddon had been undone—fires quenched, plagues banished, even famine and war ceased. Everything but one thing reversed. 

Michael snapped her fingers and the halo went out. She sidled towards Hastur in the dark. He let her curl up around him, which was fine. So long as she couldn’t look. So long as he wasn’t _seen_.

She said, “I just… I mean, I was hoping I’d die in the war after…”

“So was I. We couldn’t even get proper revenge, but he’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“It’s not your fault. It’s that fuckin’ traitor.”

“I mean, what the eff?”

“Just say fuck.”

“Fuck me, then.”

Hastur turned over and kissed her. Her lips were soft and giving and he chased the cold taste of strawberries in her mouth. Damn, he wanted to forget being angry long enough to taste more of that. Taste more of her, long enough to forget the pain…

He realized she was trembling, pulled back. “I… Sorry, I was… I’m not thinking straight.”

“You don’t have to.” 

“It’s… it’s a bad idea. I don’t know what Ligur said—”

“You think I’d let a demon tell me what to do?”

He held still as she slowly closed the distance between them in the dark again, letting her fingers walk carefully, _very_ carefully, between his scars until she could wrap him up. Hastur relaxed into her arms, breathed in the smell of the hotel soap on her skin, and forgot how not to want her. He gingerly let his own hands trace careful steps.

“Thank you for last night,” Michael said. “I needed to go drinking. I wasn’t in a good place.”

“Well,” Hastur huffed, “you were in hell.” He worried, “Is this a thank you then?”

“I’d like it to be more than that, but…” She laughed weakly. “We can go as slow as you want.”

“Michael…” What was he trying to ask? _There’re a hundred different ways we could do this, but what if I can’t do it right?_ “This isn’t just…, I mean, I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not that. I like you. I like being with you. And I don’t want this to end. Forgive me, please.”

The _please_ got to him. As a professional in torment, Hastur felt it in his chest. He pushed a hand through his stringy hair, and shut his eyes, and bit his tongue. “Michael, It wasn’t your fault.”

“I can’t help feeling that—”

“I was there, and it’s not your fault and it’s not mine. We’re not thinking straight,” he repeated.

She tried to laugh. “Oh, good, ’cause I’m _not_.”

Hastur laughed despite himself. “Shit, I like you, too.”

“But I was trying to say before,” said Michael, “that I’m sorry. About everything.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Caught that. I, um… I’ll fix the lights. Just… let me cover up.”

“We all have scars.”

“Doesn’t mean I like seeing them. If I stay, I mean, if I stay and we…” It was embarrassing. He shouldn’t be having so much trouble saying the word _sex_ , not with everything that had already been said. Not with them this close. “If I stay, the lights stay off.”

“But you’ll stay?”

Hastur buried his face in her neck and drew a deep breath. She sighed and melted against him. 

What if he stayed? Took her like this or a dozen other ways? There could be a first time. A second time. With Ligur there’d been _lifetimes_. She might always smell like this. Soap and cinnamon and something richer. They could be careful with each other. Ligur had always been, walking fingers ahead of lips in the dark, like they were making love in a minefield.

Just like that, Hastur wondered, What if?

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll stay.”

* * *

_S_ ome time after the curtains and blinds were open. Michael painted on filigree in the bathroom, and Hastur sat with the potted plant outside the door. He worked with the mud carefully but with practiced speed, like a man plastering a wall.

He wondered that she worked so slow, so he said, “Is that all makeup?”

“Not all of it. Patron of doctors, remember.”

“You mentioned.”

“There’s liniment, salves, lotions…”

“All that?”

“If you want, I can treat yours.”

“Told you, you’re not seeing mine again.”

She didn’t answer at first. Then she said, like an aside, “You know, you and him were always playing in the mud, even as angels.”

“Remember that, do you?”

“I remember the time you got dirt on my robe.”

“You lay down of your own accord.”

“I wanted to see the frogs.”

Hastur could remember, if he tried, if he dared to try. It had been in the time before All This. They’d been like children then. Innocent at least. Not quite formed yet, just enough themselves to remember later, _That was me_. He’d been on his knees in the mud, consoling a frog, and Ligur had been with him working on the lizards. And then this delicately featured long-haired angel had knelt right down in the mud and wanted to play with them.

“You got in trouble.” Hastur said. He remembered another angel’s stern hand pulling his playmate away, scolding about the white clothes. Then that look at him and Ligur, like dirt wasn’t their job, like it was what they were worth. Even then, before the line had been drawn, there’d been other lines. “Right” ones. Lucifer had simply exploited them.

“We all were in trouble, more often than not,” Michael pointed out. She drew a deep breath, then said, “I think he’s still alive.”

“Who?”

“Ligur.”

Hastur held his breath. Then some stupidly logical part of his brain moved his mouth. “You think he’s alive, but you wanted to—”

“I think he’s alive, and, yes, I _still_ want to, and, also, I want to find him.”

Hastur leaned his head back on the wall and didn’t look in. “Not very angelic.”

“What kind of angel do you think I am?”

“But it’s a big universe, doll. Where would you look?”

“He said he’d go to America.”

“What?”

“America. The United States of. We were talking once. He said he always wanted to go there, see everything the songs talk about.”

“You know, he did mention that.”

“He just couldn’t get away.”

“No one ever sends us there,” Hastur confirmed. “They get along fine without our help.” He grew serious. “You, um… You think he’s there?”

“He said all the places he wanted to go were there. I’ve been wondering, since yesterday, if I could ask you to come with me.”

“Could’ve asked yesterday.”

“It hurt too much.”

“Hurts now.”

“It might not have to.” Now Michael stood in the doorway, wringing a towel. “What d’you say?”

“And if he’s alive?” Hastur asked.

“If we’re all still alive?”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll all be together.” 

“Together, huh?” Hastur sighed. “I dunno.”

“How many times were you thinking of him?”

She didn’t specify when.

“You’re a puzzle, Michael.”

“Am I?”

“I'd be honest with you, but I don’t want to destroy my reputation.”

“I’m not asking you to be anyone but you.”

Hastur drew a deep breath, sighed. “Well, pretty sure I had my whole Thursday booked.”

“Pretty sure a little bird told me you were unemployed.”

Damn, she was persistent. And, damn, Ligur was right, Hastur liked that. He liked everything. Everything but being dragged out of the dark.

Being dragged into it on the other hand…

They shook hands on it, but he turned her hand over and kissed the blue in her wrist just so she’d gasp.

“Afternoon just opened up, doll,” he said. “How do we get there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea of gold as hiding wounds was inspired by Whiteley Foster’s _Kintsugi_.


	3. Water of Gall to Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody just has to come along to ruin the fun. 
> 
> Not a "bar fight" so much as a "bar argument," but let's just say Michael's got a sharp answer for a sore loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: blood and PTSD about helplessness.

_M_ ichael already had an idea.

“You’re kidding me. You are _kidding_ me.” 

Yesterday, Hastur wouldn’t have laughed, but the past twenty hours had been maddening. Who knew what he could do now?

It was one p.m. They stood in the parking lot, and, taking up the space of three cars, sat a 1989 Ford Recreational Vehicle. It was clearly modified (it sparkled), but Ford was not a British company. Not even continental. This was the oversized, trashy American kind of box on wheels you found overseas, the type of vehicle that only had racing stripes to hide its insecurities.

“It’s like a two-story bus with a lobotomy,” Hastur said.

“It’s a Recreational Vehicle, only we won’t need petrol, or water, or oil unless we want to keep someone employed along the way,” Michael said. She folded her arms and leaned back on the ridiculous thing. “I’ve miraculously modified it. No outright blessings, so you can drink the water without it killing you. But you’ll have to stock the bar.”

“Can’t you just turn all the water into rum or something?” 

“Screw you.”

“Promises, promises,” Hastur muttered loudly, so she’d smile, adding, “Are you really going to wear that?”

Michael was wearing a gold-flecked pink halter with jean short-shorts. The shorts were deep denim blue with white fringe.

“I’m retired.” She was smiling. “Something wrong with it?”

“Not in the least.”

She glanced back at the bellboy, who had carried their numinous luggage to the curb and was staring at the RV in confusion. Michael smiled and waved a little. “Go on, stock the bar however you want,” she said to Hastur. “I’ll tip the kid and check us out.”

“With what?”

“I have credit.”

Hastur climbed up to the cabin. He dallied at the driver’s seat (which was on the wrong side, because Americans were backwards), to check out Michael’s retreat.

“What the fuck am I getting into, Ligur?” he muttered. 

There was something odd about it, about your might-be-dead lover setting you up before he kicked it. But it was something straight out of hell, at least, and that was familiar territory: Awkwardly compelling temptations were the best ones: Less likely to be confessed, harder to fight alone.

More fun to indulge.

* * *

_F_ or the record, Room 13 was taken.

The Archangel Gabriel turned another page in a hardback book, raised an eyebrow, and, after another moment, laughed. The smaller body at his side rolled over in their sleep and reflexively slapped him.

“Did I say you could talk?” they murmured.

Gabriel grinned fondly and disheveled the demon’s tuft of black hair even more with one hand. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“Good boy,” the other muttered.

Gabriel turned another page. If this got any better, his eyebrows were going to get a heaven of a workout. He chuckled once, then again. “Hey, Bee. Bee?”

A disgruntled moan buzzed by his ribs. “What, cherub-cheeks?”

“Vegas vows count, right?”

“Why wouldn’t it count?”

“I mean, it’s not exactly holy ground.”

“Did you _zzzay_ it?”

“Yes.”

“Did we _do_ it?”

“Yes.”

“Then it countzzzz.” The Lord of the Flies squirmed into a ball, then looked up at him with pale blue eyes. “You’re still reading that book?”

“I find it absolutely hilarious,” Gabriel announced enthusiastically. Enthusiastically was how he did most things. Beelzebub could attest to a full night’s research. “Fascinating creatures, authors. Are they all so frank?”

“Did anyone tell you you’re far too trusting?”

“I only trust that the writer _thinks_ they know about BDSM.”

“How are you zzzzzo cheerful? It’s only one in the afternoon.”

“I’m a heavyweight. It’s right there in the name.” The heavyweight of heaven waggled his toes under the blankets and grinned. “You know, you could just miracle yourself sober.”

Beelzebub eyed the grinning angel. He was as chiseled as Michaelangelo’s David, which made sense, given who the model for that particular statue had been. After watching him chuckle over the book a few more minutes, Beelzebub let themselves smile fondly, then rolled their stare upward. They spotted the angel’s lavender tie on the bedpost, and reached up a hand to give it a tug.

It slid from the post with a sound like a snake.

“Close the book, archangel,” they said.

“Ah, but I’m enjoying the foibles of mankind.”

“I know what else you’ll enjoy.”

Gabriel shut the book, still grinning, the light in his eyes ready to tease. They matched the color of the tie. “And what is that, _Mx. Gabriel_?”

“Well, _Mr. Beelzebub_ , if you like _Fifty Shades_ , you’re gonna love technicolor.”

* * *

_M_ ichael made a point of being remarkably civil to the clerk who’d worked the desk all night. She paid up all the bills on the credit card of “Michelle Angelo” and took some cash out just in case. Lastly, she miracled a scholarship for the bellhop, and then headed into the attached café. It was the sort that served coffee in the morning and alcohol any time.

Entering, her clothes turned a few heads, but who cared? She meant it: She was retired. Let people police their own thoughts for a change. It would do them good.

“Sarsaparilla, please.” She slid a few rumpled bills over, then sat down at the bar. The glass arrived a few seconds later and she sipped at it, trying to calm her nerves with the placebo.

 _Am I doing this right?_ she wondered. It was a habit after six thousand years. Not a bad one. It generally prevented trouble. No reason to let up now.

She finished the soda water in quick sips. She had to get back out, but she needed a moment. The end hadn’t come after all. It put things into perspective. Relationships, for one thing. Funny how missing the moment you thought you were going to kill or be killed made you realize what you had to live for.

And what was she getting into?

With Ligur it had come slowly but naturally, blossoming out of an Arrangement, spurred by ambiguity. It had started in Egypt. Angels were supposed to _do_ good, demons were supposed to _be_ bad. But all those times she’d been sent to do less than savory things, well, it hadn’t _been_ good, had it? To stand back and let infants be slaughtered. And for what? The comfort that the killers’ children would die later? Both times, Ligur had stepped in, asking only that, if some good deed came along that he couldn’t be caught doing, she’d lend a hand as well, maybe a miracle or two.

It hadn’t been healthy. Nothing about this war was. But no surprise, eventually, they’d needed each other for more than balance. It messed with your head, trying to be good or bad when people are naturally both. They’d met at an old bombed out church. She’d stood at the crumbling edges of holy ground while he confessed in the garden that was conquering it. He’d been the first to reach out a hand…

But with Hastur? Michael’s own blood felt like lightning in her veins just being near him. She hadn’t expected to fall so quickly. She wanted so much so fast, she was surprised at herself, even ashamed.

Ligur hadn’t mentioned the wings. No wonder he stayed in the dark—When you were that fragile you took what protection you had. But, heavens, she wished she had known to be careful.

She could still taste him in her mouth, wanted to drink him with her eyes.

 _Don’t push it_ , she reminded herself. _You want this. Don’t mess it all up. You have time_.

Someone said, “I’ll have a bloody Mary.”

A wave of nausea hit Michael just as the pain did. It coiled up on her back like a latching snake. Immediately, she looked left along the bar as a man slid onto the stool beside her. A man _shape_. His chosen looks were Caucasian, but sun-tanned and dark-eyed, and with perfect teeth. She could tell him from his smile alone. It could have been friendly. It wasn’t. And the voice was a dead ringer.

He said, “Hello, Michael.”

Michael watched him pick up his drink and take a sip. He licked the red off his lips.

He said, “So this is where you got off to. I assume you got _off_ , too? Lot of you did last night. Great idea, let off some steam. Auras everywhere feels like. Nice outfit.”

Michael glared. Her blood was suddenly a different kind of lightning. The kind that came down from heaven and scattered strange altars into rubble. “What do you want, Lucifer?”

The devil grinned. He probably thought it was attractive. “Nothing. You know me, Mick. I’m like Her. I don’t get involved.”

“Being here _is_ involved. And you are _nothing_ like Her.”

He chuckled. It was the kind of easy-going chuckle most people would find reassuring, because most people didn’t know why the devil chuckled.

“These are my party clothes.” He gestured vaguely. “You like?”

“Black. Where’s the funeral?”

“I thought red would be a bit on the nose. Does it worry you? It’s just bones and nerves and blood.”

No one, not even the bartender, seemed to be paying attention.

“Mick, you can put away your warrior’s aura. If I wanted to make an entrance, I would. I’m just here for the drink. So…, you here with anyone?”

“None of your business,” she said.

“You left hell pretty quick, I hear. You still got it on you, right—the end of the world trumpet?”

Michael flinched.

“That a yes?”

“You’re too late, Lucifer. I threw it away.”

“You what?”

“I threw it away. Smashed it. It’s gone. The world is not going to end.”

He threw up his hands. “Who’s to say? Where did you throw it to? Michael, don’t leave me hanging. I’ve got a war to win. You owe me another fight.”

“I owe you nothing,” she said, and stood up, “and I _won’t_ see you around.”

“Heh.” He sipped his drink again. Then his hand shot out and he grabbed her arm.

It burned. The memory of worse pain froze her, wormed into the breach of her defenses. Inwardly, she cursed at the weight on her chest, at the way her palms broke into a sweat, at how she remembered, too clearly, being pinned and bleeding, on a golden street as heaven shattered around her. But outwardly—outwardly, she glared, like she was counting down seconds, like she was just being merciful, as an angel should be, before slicing that arm clean off.

Lucifer said, “Armageddon might be trashed, but we still have plenty of unsettled business, Michael. I was so looking forward to seeing you again. I couldn’t help myself. I had to find you.”

“You had to do shit.”

“Come on, Michael, language.” He dropped her arm and let his fingers trace the small of her back. The coils of pain seemed to writhe awake. “I’ll buy you a real drink. Then we can go find the trumpet, get some crazy glue or whatever, and _then_ you and I can call all our friends and start where we left off.”

“We’re not starting anything,” said Michael. “I’m retired.”

“Even better. No rules. No Mommy here to help you. Might be the best way to settle this.”

Michael sneered and wrenched away. She had weapons that came to call, but he wasn’t worth the sword. In an instant she’d summoned a dagger and with a shout planted it straight down into the bar counter—through his other hand.

The offending fingers dropped away as he screamed, “Shit, Michael!”

Lightning cracked around the blade, drove back his other hand as he tried to pull free.

“Just bones and nerves and blood,” Michael said. “And what did I tell you, about _ever_ touching me again?”

And still no one was looking. No one noticed anything strange at all.

“Fucking…”

“You want to fight? How about now? Sorry, did you mean we needed to _talk terms_ first? Maybe decide on a _safe word_ , in case you decide you can’t handle my handing you your ass again? Here’s an idea for one: _Fuck off_.”

“You’re just not up to it.”

“I’d stab you in the heart if you had one, but, like I said, I’m not interested in restarting _your_ war. Because, like I said, I’m retired. And, like _you_ said, don’t expect me to play by the rules. You might have invented the sword, but I was the first one to beat you senseless with it, and I _will_ do it again.”

She yanked the knife free.

“Enjoy your bloody Mary.”

Michael left him bleeding on the counter and stormed out to the parking lot.

“Something wrong?” asked Hastur as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

* * *

_N_ o human could drive an RV from England to America, but the right amount of power could make it fly very fast and very far for some space of time. And so, for the first time ever, an RV flew from England to America, touching down in a meadow right before dark.

“Don’t they have parks for this kind of thing?” asked Hastur. The miracle had left them both out of breath.

“We’ll be gone by morning. I don’t want company.” Michael spread out a map of the country on the RV’s fold-down table. The recreational vehicle had all kinds of folding bits and pieces. It made Hastur think of those clever apartments made in Japan.

At first glance, the map was just creased paper with too many fine, colored lines, but there were sparks of light here and there. Hastur leaned over to squint.

“What are those?” he asked.

“Ethereal and occult presences.”

“They look like stars.”

“All of heaven and hell cleared out. No one has anything to do but travel.”

“Where d’you get something like this?”

“Earth Observation resources. I kept it at my desk.”

“Aren’t you supposed to hand that kind of thing in when you leave a job?”

“I never turned in my sword either.” She grinned a bastard’s grin until he kissed her.

“You really think we can find him?” he asked.

Something in the air went _poof_. They looked up as two thin pink sheets of paper fluttered out of nothing. Carbon copies, signed by two very different sigils.

“I guess someone’s still at the office,” said Hastur.

Michael caught the one with the Metratron’s stamp. “Well,” she said, “it’s official.”

“We’re fired.”

“Let go. Discontinued.”

“We’re _fired_.” Hastur balled the paper in both hands.

“What’s yours say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Hastur tossed the ball, took a shot of fire at it, and missed. Michael stole it and folded both papers away into a file. The folder promptly disappeared some place. (The RV would never lack storage space. He expected she’d file everything.) Michael said, “I guess there really are no sides anymore.”

“Sure there are,” said Hastur. “People who mind their own business, and people who won’t stay out of it.”

“Which are the good guys?”

“You take your pick, doll.” Hastur fetched beer from the fridge and passed her one. “I’m off to bed. Wherever…”

She pointed him to the ladder halfway across the space.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, whatever you need.”

He had some thoughts, and decided against it. She’d been wincing since the bar.

“Night, doll,” he said. 

The upper level had two beds set end-to-end with a trapdoor between. Not that one wasn’t wide enough for two. Like sleeping in a coffin though, he thought, but he didn’t mind much. At least it was dark.


	4. As the Horse Rushes into the Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Lucifer is horrible, Michael is furious (among other things), and Hastur strikes a deal about arson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw/Tw: For references to the US Opioid Epidemic.  
> Cw/Tw: For bullying and coercion; Lucifer is an abuser—who is going down, promise.
> 
> Cw/Tw Notes (expanded): So, as I mentioned in the main notes, this fic started as a comfort fic, hence some of the tags. 
> 
> I used to live in the US, so from hereon out, the characters are running into a few problems there (sans 2020 to save everyone some stress). I'll add warnings to the notes whenever one of these things comes along. I've tried not to use too many details unless leaving them out would be confusing to the reader or the characters interacting with them. Anyone who recognizes this stuff knows how bad things are without my help, and I feel like focusing on more wouldn't be fair to readers who just want to read some fan-fiction about an angel and a demon who do give a damn about what's going on in that neck of the woods, often in spite of themselves.

_P_ icture this: A dark warehouse club. Neon lights, glitter, and things that glow. Under the UV lights, a bass drops so low it’s throwing punches to your stomach. And, so loud you can’t think, riding high and mighty above it is the music.

Dagon had always wanted to be a disk jockey. She—She was a _she_ today—was loving her new gig as such. The compliments on her “body glitter” were in ample supply. Compliments were nice. She was getting to like nice things.

The bass dropped so low it dug a cellar. Dagon hit shuffle on a few tracts she’d pre-mixed, then skipped over to the bar. Time for a well-deserved break. She looked around the floor and caught sight of some familiar faces. Not a few of them were hiding horns and halos. No matter. She was retired.

Dagon called for a gin and tonic. Bryan couldn’t hear her over the noise, but he knew her drink and slid it her way. She settled in and hummed happily with the fresh buzz. Armageddon aside, it really was better this way, she thought, and checked her watch. Look at that. Still time to spare. Nowhere to be. No one to kill. Just time to be alive.

It was all nice really. Get the paperwork in hell right and things just ran themselves. She should have gotten out long ago. Only Eric liked that stuffy office.

There was a _poof_ , and a pink piece of paper fluttered down in front of her.

“Well, took HR long enough,” she muttered. Beelzebub had signed the forms days ago. Now Dagon turned the page in one hand. She blew a puff of fire and watched the flimsy pink paper burn to ash. “I’m ready for retirement yesterday.”

Her phone vibrated almost immediately. Dagon had gotten the hang of smartphones rather quickly after the Apocalypse failed. She checked the text.

<CAN’T MEET 2NITE. RAN IN2 ARIEL. WISH ME LUCK! LOL.>

“Ah, good for you, Abby,” Dagon sighed, then called for a second drink, this one to-go. Rave was well and good, but maybe she’d try some Ska next. There was only time.

An unsettling pair of dark eyes interrupted her plans as she turned from the bar.

“Hello, Dagon,” said Lucifer.

The lights and sound died like they’d been shot. A house light flared up, and One of Eric was standing at a comically large switch on the wall. He’d miracled it into replacing a circuit breaker box too complicated for him to figure out.

Those who recognized their intruder backed away quickly, but for a few hoping to score points. These took a knee before he forced the matter.

“Well,” said Lucifer, oozing beneficence. “This really is fun. I didn’t realize my minions had so many enjoyable talents outside the corporate fare.” Wherever his gaze fell, eyes ducked down to the floor. “I’m doing a bit of leveraging,” he announced. “I really need my right-hand _them_. Tell me, has anyone seen Beelzebub?”

No one answered.

Dagon slipped her phone behind her back and pushed down hard on the fingerprint lock. She dropped it into her pocket.

“Aw, also fun,” said Lucifer. “We’re trying loyalty, are we? Look, I know you all have been having a great time with retirement. It’s almost like you forgot that, just a week ago, you and the angels were all going to kill each other.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t know we liked each other,” said an angel.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Oh, hi, Phil.”

The awkward angel waved worriedly and adjusted a glowstick halo.

“You, uh, want to join us, boss?” asked Dagon.

Lucifer chuckled. “No.” The smile vanished. “Party’s over. Armageddon’s back on. We’re going to the End on my word. Same itinerary, new schedule.”

“But there’s no antichrist,” said Mammon.

“I don’t need the trappings.” Lucifer strolled into the center of the dance floor and spread his wings. They were dragon’s wings, blackened gold, throwing back the average light in burnished brilliance. “All I need is Michael and her army and our age-old vendetta.”

“Michael’s retired!” shouted another angel.

“We’ll see about that.” The devil cracked his neck and a hundred other eyes batted open across his leathery wings and skin. The few mortals present screamed and cringed against the walls. A knot of stoners bugging out in one corner cowered, then thought better of it and started taking selfies.

“Run along, little angels,” said Lucifer. “Tell heaven the books have been _reopened_. I’m done delegating and playing with pawns. This time, it’s angels versus demons, the way it should be, just _come and see_.”

He turned back to the cowering Fallen and waved a hand. Dagon felt every nerve scream and dropped to her knees. All around the club other demons were doing the same. It was, unfortunately, still a difference between angels and demons: The Almighty gave angels a choice, then punished them for choosing. Lucifer never bothered his followers with pretense.

He said to remind them, “You all made a choice six thousand years ago. _You belong to me now_. We might have hit a setback, but I don’t care what the _Madam_ Upstairs says. This war is still on. Now… Where. Is. Beelzebub?”

“They didn’t leave a forwarding address after signing the pink slips,” said Dagon.

Lucifer sighed, then drew a sword from the air. It was sharp as a guillotine, the kind of blade that looked fast standing still. Hefting it once in his hand he strode back over to the bar.

“Don’t try to one-up me, Dags, I am the Father of Lies. Now, if you won’t lend a hand, I’ll just have to take one…”

He swung the sword once and drew it back bloodied, then kicked Dagon hard in the stomach, forcing the breath from her lungs. She dropped to the ground silently, screaming and clutching her arms to her chest.

“Or both,” the devil added. “Lie to me again, and I take your head, and unlike in Philistia, I won’t stop there.” Stooping, he rummaged through her pockets, then pulled out the phone. “Clearly, you need me to remind you who owns your pitiful little life.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but unlocked the phone with the acquired means as the other demons looked on in horror. Leaning idly on his sword, the devil popped his neck again and scrolled through the addresses, all his eyes glancing up and down in his search.

“Would this be it?”

He lowered the screen as if Dagon were coherent enough to see the message bar with the name “BZB” on it.

Dagon growled, rallied through her pain, and said, “Fuck you.”

“Get over yourself. They’ll grow back, if I don’t get angrier with you.” Lucifer tapped the photo icon and scrolled through the chat files. “Look at all these selfies. Goodness, this generation, full of themselves, aren’t they? But…. what’s this…? Vegas? I guess congratulations are in order! Our Bee-bee’s renewed their vows with an old flame!”

Lucifer faced his demons and sneered at the few angels twisting their halos in worry. Grinning, the devil swung the sword again and carved a line across the dance floor. Where its blade touched, fire burned, licking up into the air like a wall.

He announced, “Now, this is a hot take, but—and you might not believe this— _I am still in charge_. And since all of you were foolish enough to burn your pink slips, you’ve no leverage otherwise. Now… Get. Back. To. Hell.”

Phil looked around, then pulled down the fire alarm. The sprinklers shuddered over their pipes, and then started to spill. Lucifer rolled his eyes, then sighed. He tossed Dagon’s phone on the ground and the screen shattered.

He swung the sword again, and smiled at the panic that ensued. Bodies escaped into fresh fissures in the ground, spouting plumes of sulfur where they’d descended. The mortals ran for the doors, the angels shielding them. He let them go, for now, put up his sword, and beckoned to Eric.

“Help Lord Dagon back to her filing cabinet. And send one of yourselves to Vegas. Report back to me what you find. I really need to pay those two lovebirds my respects.”

“Shall I order flowers, sir?” asked Eric.

“No. And if they see you, I will maim a thousand of you while the other thousand watch.”

“Sure thing, boss,” said Eric cheerfully. (He did most things cheerfully, even when he died.) “Sorry, Lord Dagon.”

Dagon stared back once at the phone before staggering away. With a squint of her eyes the device burst into flames, destroying its contents, though for one photograph it was already too late.

 _Sorry, Bee_ , she thought. _I am so sorry._

* * *

 _M_ ichael and Hastur were in Maine. So far, they’d left three x’s on the map where angels had hunkered down to live as hermits. Sort of. There was social media after all, when the signal could catch, and miracles did for cell reception what mountainous regions couldn’t.

“I mean, it’s not like anyone’s keeping track anymore,” Raziel had said. The ex-warrior angel had, in the two days since his pink slip, started a garden of radishes. “Good luck, Michael. Tell your demon friend too.”

Hastur had hidden in the RV cabin behind the map, counting stars.

Now the radio was playing Bon Jovi and Michael watched the road. It wound through forests and over mountains and there was a blaze of autumn glory on every shoulder as far up as the clouds. It was so bright and brisk and lovely, she kept forgetting to worry.

Michael could tell today Hastur was just trying to hold together. Now and then there were bad nights. She could feel it in his aura: Last night had been a bad one. He still wouldn’t let her tend his wounds, so today she’d asked to drive. It let him smoke and wait for the flare-ups to die down.

For the past couple of miles, he’d been taking out his frustration by putting the tires flat on the hidden traffic cops.

“How do you know they’re all bad?” asked Michael.

“Apples and their bunches, doll,” Hastur said, and nudged a family of skunks towards the next one. “If they start out good, they go bad. Can’t survive the job otherwise.”

Eventually they reached an uneven bridge crossing the stream into “the Granite State.” Under “Welcome to New Hampshire,” the next signs read, “Live Free or Die” and “Chester’s Chicken.”

“Chester does not mess around,” said Hastur offhand. He chewed the end of a new blunt and scanned the map.

“Is that legal here?” Michael asked.

“Ahead of you.” Hastur snapped his fingers and the map in his hands shaded green across several states. “There you go, Mikey: All the medicinal-friendly places. Conscience clear?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you keep asking anyway?”

“Just asking.”

“You know, for every illegal drug there’s some overpriced legal one, right?”

“You feel like fried chicken?”

Hastur huffed. “Nothing more American than deep-fried chicken. Except maybe fried chicken holding an unlicensed gun and pissing on the side of the road.”

“You’re not going to make me lose my appetite.”

“If you want it, just say so, doll. I’ll eat anything.” Hastur leered until she started laughing. They’d been doing a lot of that for the past few days, good or bad. A lot of laughing. And not just while drinking. “And, for the record, Ligur’s mentioned this place.”

“Did he really?’

“Didn’t want to say unless you were interested.”

They parked and Hastur shrugged into his jacket, then followed her out into the parking lot. Like much of New Hampshire’s pavement, the infrastructure was years behind in renovations. Tree roots pushed up in cracked veins all along the asphalt. Painted white lines were broken into perforation. No parked car stood level and some nearly tilted into one another.

“What a wreck,” he muttered loudly.

“You don’t like it?”

He took her arm and she walked closer. “I thought New England was supposed to be lovely and shit.”

“You can’t be lovely _and_ shit,” she said.

“Well, I’m walking next to a miracle.”

“Come off it.” Michael shoved him (carefully), but laughed again. She didn’t ignore how the compliment made her heart flutter. He didn’t even seem to be trying.

Instead, Hastur was looking around at the “city,” an optimistic way of referring to the main hub of one small town that had swallowed a few others. The whole of it was built around a couple of low hills, its roads rising and falling in and out of steep valleys and criss-crossing farmland. There were a few municipal buildings and a couple of small shops, most of them boarded up but a few hanging on.

“The roads here look pretty bad for RV-ing,” remarked Michael.

“Blame the Opioid Crisis,” huffed Hastur. “Sometimes I wish I could take credit for that one.”

“Why?”

“We get commission,” he explained to her puzzled look. “Kinda like the doctors pushing oxycontin to pay for med school. It’s incentive.”

“For what?”

“Evil. Not that we need it.”

“No?”

“Fear of dismemberment generally does the trick.”

Michael didn’t laugh. “What happens when you discorporate?” she asked.

“Come back like this. Original scars intact.” Hastur cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, then pointed at a sign outside Chester’s and said loudly, “What in Judas’s name is a ‘Jo-jo’?”

It was on the menu over a food line too. Behind the counter, a friendly cook was working and whistling to golden oldies. As they watched, he filled fryer baskets with freshly breaded potato wedges, then lowered them into bubbling oil.

“Those look amazing,” said Michael.

They ordered one of everything, complete with ketchup (since mayonnaise wasn’t the norm here). Outside, they parked themselves at a stone table. Michael bit off half a chicken finger in one go, then sighed as the flakey breading melted into a greasy pudding in her mouth. She almost didn’t have to chew. The mess just slid down her throat.

“Gross, huh?” asked Hastur.

“Magnificent,” she sighed.

“Don’t get grease on the map, you glutton.”

“Angels can’t be gluttons, demon.”

“Oh, more for me then.”

“I will eat how I like, demon—and how much.”

“You’re making me hungry just watching you.”

“Then dig in.”

Hastur did. After a few minutes, they ordered seconds, since ethereal metabolism is a fiery furnace. Stacking baskets up to one side on the table, they sat counting glowing spots on the map. Hastur hoarded a basket of wings, scarfing noisily. Michael had a feeling he was trying to be obnoxious and only smiled when he belched loudly. In turn, Michael devoured the last of the deep-fried drumsticks. Then she licked her fingers one by one for the salt and garlic until his furtive glances turned into an open stare.

“You know,” he said, “that moaning of yours is more a public indecency than I am.”

“We’re outside, not in public. This is a one-horse town.”

“And one of those horses was shot.”

“Not too pricey, at least. I don’t understand how people can eat like this everyday.”

“By living very short lives on very low budgets,” said Hastur. He tapped at the map. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“You’re right, I am.”

“Look at this here.” Hastur pointed at the West Coast.

“A grease stain.”

“I swear, there were more lights here yesterday. In Oregon, look.”

Michael leaned closer. “Yeah. It’s… odd,” she said. “Maybe they’re moving around.”

“Hope not.” Hastur stole the basket of Jo-jo’s. “I’ll take these.”

Michael snatched one last potato wedge and let him have the trove, then sat back with a contented sigh.

“Does your phone still work?” Hastur asked.

“Not since the apocalypse. I guess they cut me off.”

“There’s vid’ phone.” Hastur gestured to the cafe and its wi-fi icon.

Michael tried Ligur’s old number first, but it was a landline and only one of Eric answered.

“What are you still doing there?” she asked.

“A little bit of everything. Hey, where are _you_ these days?”

“Hell, if I know,” she answered, and hung up, a strange feeling twisting her stomach. “Just Eric,” she explained to Hastur, then opened her messages. She brought up Gabriel’s feed, relaxed a little as a trip to the Grand Canyon unfurled. “They’ve finished the West Coast,” she said.

“Who did?”

“Your boss and my best friend.” She showed him a selfie.

“Aw, I thought they were joking!” Hastur cried, and Michael laughed.

“They were a couple even before, you know.” she said. “Maybe we’ll run into them.”

Hastur noticed a sticker in the shop window. It had owl-eyes. “I know that app.” He pointed a grubby finger. “Travel thing. Ligur told me about it.”

Michael pulled out the phone again for the QR code. “You have an account?”

“No, but he did: LiggyLaVidaLoca, no spaces.”

“And maybe it’s active?”

“Would save time. Look for a place. Look for an ‘X’...”

Michael did a quick search and then laughed as the list came up. “I don’t believe it…”

“O ye of little faith?”

“ _That_ was a bad joke.”

“I don’t like jokes.”

But she was laughing. “What’s his password?”

“His birthday.”

“His birthday is _our_ birthday.”

“We’ve never been good with passwords.”

“And… we’re in. No new activity…”

“But we have a plan.”

“We do.” Michael glanced up as something prickly poked her senses. Worried, she looked around, spotted something across the street. She stopped laughing.

“Hold that thought.”

“What for?”

Michael tucked her phone away and crossed the road, heading for what looked like a pile of old nylon and trash beside a shut-up secondhand shop. Hastur took one more glance at the table, then folded up the map. He followed, still chewing loudly.

The pile was a man. He lay shaking, his eyes shut. The stained rag of an old high school jersey jacket was slung on his back. Michael cringed. Human auras were easy to read. The pain was radiating off of the man in waves.

Michael twitched her wings open. They were translucent, all the rainbow reflections of light on a prism with nothing physical attached to it. She let them form a barrier around the mortal.

“Those are your wings?”

“Clearly.”

“They look like…”

“They look like my wings.”

“We’re in _public_.”

“We’re outdoors. It’s not working.”

“What isn’t?”

“Something’s holding my power back. This isn’t an illness. If I can figure out…”

“You’re the patron of doctors and you don’t know about—Put those away, someone’s coming up the street.”

Michael glanced back. A woman with a bag of groceries was strolling over the hill, earbuds dangling off her earlobes as she did something on her phone. Swallowing worriedly, Michael let her wings vanish. She knelt on the pavement. She reached to check the stranger’s forehead, but Hastur caught her hand.

“Careful, doll.” He leaned down beside her, tapped the back of his glove to the stranger’s forehead, “you don’t know where that’s been.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Hastur peered. “Easy to see the signs when you follow temptation across the centuries.”

“Of what?”

“Chemicals. Manufactured illness.” He drew back the glove at last, then tugged it off. He spun it into a little fireball for good measure. “This one’s called Fentanyl. Think heroine, only legal, overprescribed, and fifty times more addictive.”

“You certainly know your recreational drugs.”

“Funny you don’t, patron saint of doctors.”

“I’m more into holistic treatments,” Michael explained. “Otherwise, I’m known for the sword, remember.”

Hastur was already digging a fresh (well, not as funky) spare glove from his pocket. He threw the ashen ball of the other away. “Here’s a punchline, doll: This is not recreational. It’s medicinal. For severe pain. But the more it’s used, the less it works.”

“It should be illegal then.”

“Selling out the back door is illegal. Lacing heroin with it to make the heroin _more_ addictive, that’s illegal. The rest’s fair game, but I don’t touch opioids with a ten-foot pole.”

“So, he overdosed?”

“Yeah.” Hastur snapped his fingers, summoned a syringe of something from the air.

“What are you doing?”

“Certainly not any good. Got my reputation.” Hastur relented.

“You know, we don’t have to play that game anymore.”

“Well, I am doing you a favor then: Narcan,” he explained to her puzzled look. “Fentanyl’s supposed to be short-term use.” He jabbed the needle into the man’s thigh through his jeans. It should have broken but shoulds were optional with demons. He deftly pushed in the plunger. “The withdrawal symptoms are physical, and the longer it’s used, the worse those get. It’s a cycle. What d’you see, doll?”

Michael checked her other senses. “Bad back…. Started with bad feet. A twisted spine, maybe from work. A neck injury, too, way back when.” She shook her head. “That’s not something for medicine. That takes therapy.”

“Medicine’s cheaper than therapy.”

“Well, fuck it. I’m fixing all that.” Michael stood. “Where’s the other mortal?”

“Window shopping.”

“Block my view, will you?”

“Won’t cure the addiction. You need people for that.” Hastur stepped back and she opened her wings again.

“ _And then_ I’m getting an ambulance.”

“Don’t do that. They cost an arm and a leg here.”

“ _Cost_?”

“Literally. I told you, I hate this place. Call the fire department instead. They can take him to a clinic.” Hastur looked up and down the street as she dialed, then tucked the syringe into the man’s coat. “Can’t have been here long. Nearest facility’s a bit of a drive, I’ll bet…”

Michael held up her phone for a signal. “No answer.”

“You need a poor man’s ambulance then. Call an Uber.”

“How do you know all this?”

Hastur pointed to himself. “Odds are I’ve seen more than you,” he said, and Michael had to admit the point. She tucked away her wings.

By now the woman with groceries was across the street. Michael swallowed nervously, then crossed to her decisively. “Sorry to bother you, miss, but do you know this man?”

The woman looked genuinely concerned. As she leaned to one side to look, Michael made a subtle motion that mended the stitched name on his faded jersey.

“Goodness, that’s Zack!” the woman worriedly. They crossed the street together. “I haven’t seen him since high school, but… He looks awful. Is he breathing?”

Another little gesture. Michael said, “Looks like it, barely. We were just passing through. Don’t really know the place, but we were hoping to get him some help.”

“Well, bless you both. Times have been kinder to all of us,” the woman said this eyeing Hastur, who groaned incoherently and shrugged. They stood talking about what she knew of “Zack” until the Uber arrived.

After they headed back to the table, Hastur noticed something etched into the curb. He tapped Michael’s shoulder, then pointed.

“Is that…?”

“A sigil,” Michael confirmed. She leaned over to peer at it better. “It can’t be…”

“He did say he wanted to come here, right?”

Michael pulled out a pen and turned over the map. She made a note of it. “It’s on his list.”

“So we’re getting somewhere.”

“Maybe if we follow his list we’ll know where to go next.”

* * *

 _O_ nce they were back in the half-light of the RV, Michael strode into the back cabin immediately.

“You’re still worried,” Hastur noted.

“I didn’t realize things were so bad here. This is nuts.” Michael slapped the map down on the table and pulled at her hair. She felt ready to shake out of her skin.

Hastur locked the door. He dropped his coat on a hook and sauntered after her. “They should change the national anthem to ‘White as Snow.’”

“By U2?”

“No, by Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“I never heard it. Maybe we should stay longer.” Michael turned and leaned back on the table, out of breath and a bit stir-crazy. “Help more people. Find more clues.”

“Don’t get yourself wound up, doll. ‘Live free or die,’ remember? Freedom has risks and consequences.”

“Are they free here?”

“Eh, the clinic’ll get him back on track. You can’t save the whole country by doing miracles, doll.”

“I ought to take those doctors to task,” Michael spat. “We’ve got the ability, Hastur. And the time. It’s a matter of privilege. We have power; these people don’t.”

“It didn’t get your blood boiling before the war.”

“Yeah, but everything was going to _end_.” Some of Michael’s anger deflated. “It was all going to end. We were all a bit selfish, weren’t we?” she wondered.

“Hard not to be.” Hastur shrugged. “Miracles are cheaper than righteousness.”

Michael wanted to get mad at that, but then realized there was no point. “You’re right. You are.” She threw back her head with an aggravated groan. “Why bother with long-term solutions when you can just bless people to your side and get them ready to die…”

Hastur lifted his eyebrows. “Regretting that now?”

“You know, what? I am.” She turned back to the map, shaking her head. “The Almighty gave these people life and we just told them to forget about that and die from day one…”

“Even so, trying to fix an epidemic single-handedly five seconds after learning it exists? You’re chipping at a diamond mountain, Michael,” said Hastur. He reached around to spin the map for study, pulled a familiar paper roll from behind his ear as he tapped the sparks. “Trust me, the problems with this country are like a mental illness. America grew up in trauma, wants too much to be normal to ask for help, and just keeps medicating without a prescription.”

“Like Mary Jane? You can overdose on that too, you know.”

“I have a prescription. And, hey, this has its downsides, but chemical addiction isn’t one of them.”

Irritated already, Michael snatched the blunt from him, felt a bit of flame in her stomach that had nothing to do with rage as his eyes widened in surprise. Scooting back to sit on the table, she stuck the roll defiantly in her mouth and sucked until her cheeks caved in.

He stammered, then said, “You need to drive.”

“You’re looking better. Sober up, and I won’t have to.”

He reached out and she leaned back and they fell. The table buckled and the map sailed to the floor. Hastur hissed in pain, but she steadied him.

“Sorry,” she said. Then her lips were on his.

He tasted like oil and garlic and pepper, and, under that, clean summer dirt and sweat. Michael pulled his tongue into her mouth and sucked the grease from it. Hastur moaned and pushed in. She pushed back. The smell of canola hung on both of them, clinging and thick and addictive, but it wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t enough.

Hastur drew back first, dark eyes wavering. “We keep this up, and neither of us will be in a state to drive.”

“There’s an idea.”

“You and your oral fixation.”

“I’m still hungry.”

“Told you, I don’t like jokes.”

“Not a joke.” She pushed back his jacket.

Hastur stood up and turned away, pulled it back on. Michael sat up grudgingly as he turned up the collar.

“Daylight,” he explained shortly.

Michael set her hair back in place and cleared her throat. “We could just close the shutters and pretend it’s not…”

“West next,” he checked the map. His frown deepened.

“What’s wrong?”

He pointed. “More lights are gone out in the Dakotas. It’s been what, an hour?”

Michael realized something by his tone. “You’re worried?”

Hastur shook his head quickly. “Like you said. Big world.”

“And one of those lights could be Ligur.”

“Yeah.” Hastur swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. Likely now. Maybe, if he’s… I’ll sober up. We can get as far as Ohio in a week—if we don’t stop to save the world again…”

“Let me miracle some extra Narcan for the fire stations at least, leave a few nightmares for the local pharmacists…”

“If you get to do that in every state, I get to commit arson.”

“How does that follow?”

“The Big Pharma companies all have their ups and downs, but the big pushers of opiates are mostly on the East Coast. So _you_ give the fire stations more Narcan for the OD calls, and _I’ll_ get fire insurance fees through the roof for the people who put money over mortality.”

Michael fluttered her lashes playfully, felt her heart flutter too. “Would you really?” She must have failed to hide that she was impressed; he looked suddenly embarrassed.

“Yeah, well, then we head west—before the lights go out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I tweaked this chapter after I read recently on StatNews that Fentanyl poisoning with skin contact is a myth. Over all, physical contact with overdose victims doesn't cause harm unless the chemical is inhaled or swallowed. Skin contact alone won't provide enough exposure.


	5. Vipers that Cannot be Charmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which various acts of arson are committed and Hastur's reasons are better than Lucifer's. Also, rum and other things are had, some of them better than rum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: For a joke about suicide that Michael doesn't let slide, and for some references to disease.

_S_ ome people have a favorite bar. In the Americas, this means a place that’s twenty, thirty, or forty years old.

In Europe, this means restaurants that have changed names over the centuries but never moved from the same spot.

The ex-demon Azazel sat in a cool, dimly lit room with few modern amenities. The rafters were bare, the walls stucco, and the coffee and alcohol both were specially picked to complement the menu. There was a discrete set of speakers playing local instrumental music, of course, a security camera at the register, and locks on the doors. But these all blended in. He could have been sitting here five hundred years ago. He had been, in fact. So he knew he was right.

Generally, people just forgot to notice that his knees didn’t face the right direction. And no one to date had remarked about the horns.

Azazel took a drink of his espresso and watched the tourists on the street through the window. You could always tell tourists. Europe was full of high-context cultures with nuanced traditions and ways of speech. Tourists stood out like sore thumbs, with their tacky clothes, translation apps, and barge-in attitudes.

Not that he minded. He was from out of town, too.

The bell over the door rang disinterestedly.

“Hello, Azazel.”

Lucifer slid into the seat across from him, jostled one knee, and eyed the sleepy little hovel. A few men were getting their first drinks, just off from work. A waitron was chatting up a tourist about her college semester abroad. No one noticed the two demons.

“Nice place you’ve found here,” said the devil.

“Lucifer,” Azazel acknowledged, in a voice like a desert gorge. “What do you want?”

“You assume I want something. Can’t demons trust one another these days?”

“There are three things that are never satisfied, four that are never sated,” Azazel quoted an obscure proverb: “The flame of the fire, the stomach of man, and the grave. The fourth is the pride of Lucifer, son of the morning, the fallen prince of heaven.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “So dramatic.”

Azazel dropped the airs. “You sacked me years ago, Lucifer. And before that, you tempted the entirety of Mesopotamia into environmental ruin just so a flood would wipe out my human family. Because you were jealous.”

“You got to have sex and I didn’t. My jealousy was justified.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“People keep saying that, but you know what I think? I think the world owes me everything,” said Lucifer. “I’ve worked so hard. I deserve a rematch.”

“You deserve to be locked in the darkest pit for all eternity,” said Azazel blandly. “Like I was, until the Almighty in her mercy offered me clemency.”

“You hold grudges, you know that?”

“I am Azazel of the Wastes. I hold the memory of all the sins of all the eons of all of time. It’s my job.”

Lucifer made a face, but shuddered a little. “Look, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need something.”

“Like I said.”

“Not want, _need_. I need this. It’s just, Michael’s being a bit of a bitch. She’s saying she’s retired.”

Azazel summoned the waitron with a wave and ordered another espresso. She didn’t notice Lucifer, because he didn’t want her to, but she still brought wine to the table as well—was quite confused by her own behavior, in fact. Azazel waved her away worriedly. He concentrated just a little, and she remembered she needed to step outside, to make a call. She’d been nice to him on all his visits. So had her great-grandmother.

While Azazel was focused on this, Lucifer went on, “This was the big day. I was going to prove to the Almighty that I’m the stronger angel and that I deserve to decide the fate of humankind. Michael was going to help me prove that, by suffering my wrath like she rightly deserves. I was going to cut her pretty little wings off. And now she’s strutting off in booty shorts doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom, and it’s so selfish and unfair that she’s happy when I’m miserable.”

“I think you’re cruel, Lucifer,” said Azazel.

“Is there any other way to be?” Lucifer asked. “But you and her were close. You were one of the watchers in Earth Observation. Just tell me what would get her attention. I really don’t know.”

Azazel finished the espresso. He stood up, which for a demon of his nature meant shadows loomed behind him more impressively than anywhere else in the room.

He said, “I realize it might not occur to you, Lucifer, but normal people have friends and care about them. Normal people, angels and mortals both, do not obsess over other people like they’re tools to be used. Let it go.”

The wine glass hit the wall beside the ex-demon’s head. A few patrons glanced over, startled and confused. They didn’t, after all, know how it had happened.

Lucifer flicked wine spatters from his jacket. He drew a deep breath, then sighed. “Fine. Fine. I get it. You’re upset. You’re upset because I killed your wife who would’ve died in eighty years anyway or whatever. Let me make it up to you.”

He stood up as well, less looming, all smiling, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Join my new effort—angels versus demons, same ballgame, just a little bit of overtime—and I’ll make it worth your while. Any human you want. You can have them and their immortal soul. You can screw them all you like while the rest of them burn in fiery sulfur. My last offer.”

Azazel glared out of slotted eyes the color of altar coals.

“You still believe right and wrong are about rewards, Lucifer,” he said. “We played your game for six thousand years, because it was the only game to play. If the Almighty has given the world another chance, then my place remains on the side of mortals. Your petty vendettas mean nothing to me.”

“Petty? Me? Fine.”

The sword cut through the table and the bench, and cleft the horned demon in the shadows in two. There was a scream like a storm on Saturn and suddenly the air sizzled. Lucifer sighed, staring at the flicker of flame smoldering where Azazel had been.

“Fool.”

He put up the sword and snapped his fingers. All around the room rang the sound of deadbolts sliding to. Outside in the alley, the waitron dropped her phone from her ear at the sound, tried the door handle, and found herself locked out.

“Eric!”

The legionary demon appeared in a pillar of sulfur fumes. “Yes, Your Infernal Disgrace?”

“Have you located the Lord of the Flies yet?”

“Yes, sir. I searched all the phones, sir. There were about ten million, sir.” Eric wisely paused as every bit of alcohol in the building simultaneously caught fire and exploded. Ears still ringing, he said, “Um, and some interesting news. They’re, um, they’re on their honeymoon.”

“Of all the idiocy. With who?”

“Um… the archangel Gabriel, sir.”

“They haven’t tired of him yet?” Lucifer’s eyes flashed red. The floor shook underfoot as the cellar began to implode.

“I think I overheard someone at the office say it’s love, sir,” said Eric.

The devil steepled his fingertips as in a burst of screams patrons and staff rushed for the doors. They threw themselves uselessly against the unforgiving locks. “That is… news,” he said.

One man hurled a bottle through a window as another tried to push open the frame. Lucifer gestured and the flames behind the bar snarled, then broke into fire serpents, swarming the lot of them.

Eric eyed the disintegrating bar nervously. “Um, _good_ news, sir?”

Amid all the fury and chaos, the devil threw back his head and laughed.

“Good?” he said. “It’s damned gospel.”

* * *

_H_ aster and Michael left New Hampshire to a citywide chorus of sirens. Vermont and New York State were next, followed by Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and New Jersey. There were, of course, brief stops at Niagara Falls, the Vanderbilt Mansion, and Booten.

There were no lights in New York City (yet), so the RV skirted Pennsylvania and cut through Maryland, stopping enough times that it took them nearly a week to reach West Virginia.

Choosing their pitstops carefully along the way, Hastur more than once put the fear of Hell into some pharmaceutical conglomerates, and not a few complacent police stations in between. Contrary to popular belief, demons are not all cruel. They are just very, _very_ fair. Misery, the saying goes, loves company.

Picture this: Darkness smothers the fluorescent lights from the stainless steel lab below to the boardroom on the top floor. Conference calls end abruptly. Computers and smartphones die. The power cuts out. And a lanky scarecrow of a demon in a muddy coat is putting the fear of hell out like open wifi. Cold claws of dread stab every soul on the clock. The starch in every white collar turns to crud.

And then the demon is _right there_ , swarming under a door in a flood of maggots, then twisting up into a grotesque pillar. He shakes off the skin of worms like he’s shrugging out of a suit. The departing scavengers burrow into walls and carpet and get to work ahead of him. He stands under the one flickering light that’s been left in throes of misery for the drama of the thing.

Next he looks to the front of the executive conference room where, behind a podium, the marketing director has just been talking about the successful bribe for tax cuts, a bribe which he identifies with tame words like “lobby” and “incentive.”

The demon is smoking a cigarette. Just a cigarette, a perfectly legal way to kill and be killed. The haze around him is tar, nicotine, and the inevitability of death.

Demons never greet mortals with “Fear not.” Instead he says, “All hail, satan. You stand accused, mortals. Repent now or perish."

The dread of eternal torment looms in every mind. The boardroom floor is carpeted. Not bad for kneeling, if you had to choose. The demon lets the begging go on for a bit.

“Could wipe the slate if you like,” he says at last, “if you stop now. Easy as that. True repentance. Can’t stand the blessed stuff. Drives me out every time. She might even bless you with generations of success for it.”

No takers. They wonder who “She” is.

The demon scoffs. They _would_.

“Or”—The demon puts out his cigarette on the conference call speaker, and somewhere in Switzerland another room can smell smoke—“you get to sample a little bit of everything. All those diseases you like so much. They’ll run out those paid days off you get that your clients don’t. They’ll run out your checkings, and your savings, and your stocks, and the medicare you’ll have to apply for after—if you can get coverage. They’ll run out until you’re playing Russian roulette with your prescriptions each week, until you can’t even see a doctor to get more prescriptions to play with. And _then_ all those lovely medicatable miseries will run out the rest of you: Your stamina, your sanity, your life. And if you’re good _all_ that time, and if you feel really, really sorry, you’ll have atoned—and you’ll never have to see me again. But, if not… Well, that’ll all seem like a walk in the park when I get you to hell.”

It never fails. As soon as there’s an inkling of mercy, the merciless think you’re weak. The executive at the podium drags himself upright. He clears his throat, and straightens his tie.

“Prove it,” he says.

Hastur snaps his fingers, and does.

It’s a chemical nightmare, and he sets fire to the building before he goes. But he pulls the fire alarm on the lab floor, leaves the doors unlocked, too, so the rest can get out, just so she won’t be sad.

* * *

_I_ t took them a fortnight to reach West Virginia this way. The tail of fire grew longer and the fire departments were perplexed by reports of demons in the area at every scene. They were also scratching their heads at the supply of Narcan in their storage rooms. It was on their books as donated, but no one recalled who had checked in the order.

Hastur couldn’t complain. It had been a good week. A good bad week. A bad week done _right_.

On a Wednesday, they camped under the stars in West Virginia. They didn’t bother with permits or campgrounds. When they didn’t want to be bothered, no one bothered them. Pine and juniper crowded the meadow just off the main road. They dug a pit for a fire, this fire less destructive, more ready to serve.

Chuck beef and chopped onions sizzled on skewers across the wood, brushed with Jack Daniel’s barbecue sauce. Hastur was tending the meat with tongs, in between dolling out rum and coke. It was a warm night so he’d left his jacket in the RV with his gloves. Now he wore an oversized green t-shirt he’d pilfered off a mannequin back in New Hampshire. It said, “Take me for Granite” on the front.

Michael meanwhile lay on her stomach on top of her sleeping bag, one leg bent, foot swinging idly. She wore a black halter top with golden stars. It was laced up in the back. Hastur found laces and snaps distracting. He felt caught in the puzzle of how it all came together, or how it might come apart. He had an inkling Michael knew this; she smiled when she saw his staring.

“You’re doing so well,” she said, taking a sip of rum and coke. It was a warm night and she was on her second glass already, wiping gold from her scars with a damp washcloth. The cloth smelled of mint.

Hastur eyed it enviously. She was happy today, practically glowing. It was a metaphysical brightness but hard to ignore. “I’m doing _horribly_ well,” he insisted. “Never send an angel to do a demon’s job.”

“One more plant in the Carolinas, if you’re game.”

“No lights on the map there.”

“Thought there were yesterday.”

Hastur shook his head.

“Still worried?”

“A bit. Soon as we find Ligur, we take Manhattan.”

“Together?”

“Yeah.”

Michael eyed him over another sip. The cloth slowed. “Nothing else you wanna do first?”

“Rushmore, maybe.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugged. “At the risk of sounding grateful, I like this,” he said, gesturing at the world at large. “You and him ever go camping?”

“No.” Michael turned herself onto her stomach and held out her empty glass. “More?”

“Thought angels went in for temperance?”

“I am _choosing_ , temperately, to ask for more.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Hastur poured a refill, then let the syrupy sharpness of his own drink slide down his throat in small, quiet sips. “How’s your winging it going?”

“It goes. There are no miracle healings for addiction. People need people. I’m trying to tie broken strings.”

“Sounds very political of you.”

“I do what I can.”

Hastur plucked the meat from the fire and set the plate between them. They dug in together. Hastur had never had so much as even a rough altar to his false idol personas, but he knew how to make a good barbecue.

He finished first and watched Michael drag chunks from each skewer with teeth and tongue, suck out the juices, then lose herself in the chewing.

“There you go being indecent again.”

“You know, you make a lot of assumptions about what angels should be.”

“Why don’t you tell me one of these days?”

“It’s nice out here,” she said, licking her lips, ignoring the question.

“Sure, without the people.”

“All the spacious skies and grain and… how’s the rest go?”

“Beautiful and stuff.”

“G-d shed disgrace or something.”

“I’m cutting you off.”

“The rum’s fuckin’ empty anyways.”

“You kiss your mother with that bleepin’ mouth?”

“This mouth could do worse.” 

“Promise?”

Michael could always outstare him because patience was a virtue. Hastur broke eye contact first, looked up at the stars, wished it wasn’t their business to be so bright all the time.

He heard her sigh. She stood up, staggered a little. “You said the rum’s in the RV?”

“Where else would it be?”

“I’ll check.” She gathered up the plate, the skewers and utensils, then gave him a pointed look and went inside.

She left the lights off.

Hastur sighed, and leaned into the act. He felt warm where the heart he pretended not to have most days lived. He’d wait a few seconds, he decided. Stew in the unfamiliar feeling of gratitude. To think, he’d argued against this.

Hastur picked up the cloth and pushed his fingers into its roughness. Sparks of mint tingled on his fingers.

“Ligur, you bastard, you were right,” muttered Hastur, not for the first time. He pressed the cloth to his forehead a moment, then downed the rest of his drink. “And she knows it.”

He set aside the glass and gnawed at a hangnail, then staggered to his feet. He knocked on the RV door and slipped inside.

“Trying to take until the next apocalypse?”

The dishes were a pile in the sink. Michael was humming at the open fridge.

“Are you humming that song now?” Hastur asked, peeling off his gloves.

“It’s not too bad.”

“Bit about the pilgrims and the so-called wilderness…”

“It’s been revised before. It could be again. White or brown rum?”

“What d’we got?”

She grabbed a brown and closed the fridge door with her hip.

“It’s a nicer song than _White as Snow_ ,” she said. It had been on the radio.

“Not as catchy,” said Hastur. When Michael passed him the bottle, he set it on the table in a wedge of window light. “Didn’t know you sing.”

She made a gesture, just a shadow in the dark. “ _Angel_.”

“I mean like everyone else.”

“I sing to the radio.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He repeated her gesture. “Angel.” He closed the space between them and nuzzled her neck until she sighed. “But I haven’t _heard_ you,” he added.

“We can change that.”

“Promise?”

“If you’re nice to me”—She turned and kissed him—”I’ll sing right now.”

Hastur forgot about the rum. It had been a ruse anyway. He let his brain shut off, swamped with a warm silky buzz better than alcohol. His hands wandered over her hips, into her hair. He let his fingers flick across the frets of the halter’s ribbons while his lips followed the trails of mint on her skin.

“Used to play the harp you know,” he murmured. “Six thousand years ago.”

“Your fingers are still clever.”

“I’ve kept in practice for a few favorites.” Hastur let his fingertips dance along the warmth of her bare waist, then teased the band of her jeans. He noticed something and grinned through the next kiss. “Thought you tune on the a-string, doll.”

“Clever, clever demon.” Michael kissed him and moaned into his mouth, then pulled back a bit. Her eyes glinted in the dark. “Is this alright?”

It had become a habit, the question. A drunk roll in the hay was fine now and then, but sometimes the medicine didn’t take like it should, and anytime you’d rather remember come morning meant navigating the pain and not drowning yourself along with it.

“It’s fine.”

“You know, I could use my wings.”

“Light this whole thing up like a firework display.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

“Nah, I’m alright, I just…”

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I… I’d just like to find my way around for a bit.”

“If you hum a few bars....”

“You won’t fake it?”

Michael sighed happily into another kiss. “Help me warmup?”

The walls were involved a few times, then the floor, and, damn, if she didn’t put that tongue to good use when she wasn’t being delightfully shrewd with it. Hastur let her hands guide him likewise, lingered everywhere her body told him to. Somewhere along the line he had her pinned at the ladder to the bunks, all wrapped up around him and trembling against his hands.

A sigh creaked from her throat. “Are you alright?” she asked again.

“More than fine.” Hastur winced in the dark, knew why she’d asked. His back was burning. Not the surface wounds, but the ghost of broken bones that never went away. Never would. Something crucial had been missing since their extraction. There’d be knives between his shoulders in the morning. She kept her hands clear.

She said, “We can slow down if you want.”

“Are _you_ alright?”

“Just a minute…” She sat herself on one rung, held herself up by another, head back in the dark, panting.

“You’d tell me if it’s too rough?” Hastur insisted.

“I like rough. I like thinking I’m stronger than this.”

“I might need…” Hastur didn’t want to say something soft, so he didn’t. Michael helped him up the ladder, grabbed the rum and followed. They undressed the rest of the way on the bunk, wincing, not quite able to sit up in the space. At last they just lay out for a bit, pulses pounding, side by side, medicating between careful kisses.

“Damn me, you’re sweet,” Hastur murmured. “If holy water tasted like this, I’d commit suicide.”

“Don’t you _dare_ leave me.”

“Right here, sugar, just being facetious.”

“And I’m being serious.” Her fingers traced his chin. “Don’t say things like that. You’re not replaceable.”

“Who is then?”

“No one. Not to me.”

“What’s so great about me?”

“You’re kind.”

Hastur scoffed. “Demons are cruel.”

“Because all you expect is cruelty.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Hastur was quiet for a moment, then added, “I’ll never be an angel.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Suddenly thirsty, he kissed her again. The space was tight but need makes due. He chased her taste in the dark like she was a spring in the desert, until she made a sound that was gloriously sinful. Still he kept going, trying to draw out her high for as long as he could, hands, lips, and ears tuned to every part of her, all the signals skin could feel but eyes couldn’t see.

“Ha… Hastur…?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“What about you?”

“In a bit. My back’s kinda...”

“Here, I’ll help…”

Michael gathered pillows for him, then carefully she traced the ridges of sores and scars on his chest until his breathing evened and he sighed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Some nights… Like this. Can’t help it…”

“It’s fine,” she whispered.

“More than fine.” His hands found her hair and he kissed her forehead.

“You take the next verse, okay?” she said.

“I’m a harpist not a singer…”

“I’ll teach you.” He felt her smile against his chest. “Let me take care of you.”

“Shit.” Hastur threw an arm across his eyes and bit his lip. Too much rum, that was it. He wasn’t going to let something as sentimental as that of all things make him tear up and…

Hastur forgot to keep thinking. He pushed his hands into her hair again, felt his hips buck and shudder. The spasm would hurt after the fact, but it didn’t matter—this was better, better, worth it, so worth it. His eyes slammed shut and he cried out as his whole wide world came undone.

* * *

_T_ hey’d have to get up eventually.

Another important question: “Was this alright?” Hastur asked. Pave the next path, be prepared.

“More than alright,” Michael murmured.

And that was good.

Hastur hovered in a euphoric glow, the saturation of his senses holding back the flood of consequences that would ache in the morning. He thought of Ligur. There had been few places to be alone despite the size of the universe. You couldn’t be choosy. Ligur had tried to keep the brick walls and sandy beaches to a minimum. Green fields in Ireland under the stars—that had been a nice one. Might be nice again, after they drove coast to coast here a few times…

“Michael?”

“Mm?”

“You really would take both of us?”

“Any way, anytime.”

“What about chastity and shit?”

“I’m not that kind of angel.”

“What kind are you?”

“The kind that has wings that glow.” She sat up beside him and played carefully with his hair.

“Yeah, too bad that, but I’m a demon of particular tastes.”

“The dark?” she asked.

“Mm.”

“What’s in the dark that’s not there in the light?”

Hastur drew a deep breath of her long hair. What he’d first thought of as perfume had subtleties now. He’d been learning them studiously. Dollar store shampoo with lavender. A bit of sugar and meat from the fire. And under that, cinnamon. Hastur buried his nose in it. “Just prefer it.”

“Is it me?”

“No, sugar, you’re perfect. You’re…” He sighed. “You’re heavenly.”

“Was that a joke?”

“Maybe. Honest though.”

They lay a moment longer, still held above pain by the proverbial afterglow.

Michael said, “Can I show you sometime, how I treat my scars?”

“Sure, maybe. I could help.”

“I mean, to help you.”

“I’m a’right, really. Don’t want to ruin the aesthetic.”

“Probably should get back outside, what with the fire.”

“My fires do as they’re told.”

“All but one, I think.” Michael let her hands play carefully. She was always careful. Not for the first time, Hastur recalled he hadn’t thought archangels went in for being gentle.

“We could go to sleep,” he said.

“Stars are nice tonight though. It’s claustrophobic in here.”

“That song doesn’t mention stars.”

“Just sea to shining sea.”

“Are we going that far?”

“Do you want to?”

“Maybe. Rushmore first.”

And the stars were nice. A night sky’s always nice when you stop thinking of where you come from. When you start wondering where you’re going.


	6. I Would Comfort Myself in Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bad singing, pancakes, and a visit from a friend lead to questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: drinking and drugs, sex, Rushmore, allusion to PTSD, blood and subsequent first aid; also off-screen torture along with other reasons to hate Lucifer.

“W _ell, I got friends in lowly places where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases my blues away…”_

The RV had a propensity to certain country music the same way certain other supernatural vehicles tended towards Queen. It suited Hastur and Michael just fine, “So long as there’s not so much of that weird twang,” said Hastur while they were digging through cassettes and A-tracks. He made an exception for Garth Brooks, especially _Lowly Places_.

They still headed west. Gradually the Appalacians rose, then fell, followed by great green valleys of pine, and hillsides of bright hardwoods. Then the land got flat.

“The guy in this song is an asshole, by the way,” Michael remarked.

“Yeah, but everyone wants to be an asshole sometimes,” Hastur pointed out. “Even angels. You that kind of angel?”

“You’re missing the chorus— _I’m not big on social graces…_ ”

They lost one station crossing into the south of Ohio. Hastur leaned forward to adjust the bandwidth. “So I get lovers, but when did you decide all angels and demons could be _friends_?” he asked.

“About five minutes after the apocalypse.”

Hastur laughed as he adjusted the radio. “Really?”

“I mean, I thought about it a few times. But it was all going to end. I’m jealous those traitors beat us to the punch…”

“Could still end."

“Yeah, but it won’t be _us_ ending it. That’s a difference really. I’m starting to think She wanted it this way.”

“Us fighting and killing for six thousand years?”

“No, that’s not… I mean, maybe we needed six thousand years to cool down, and She let us have them until we were ready to think about things differently.”

“No clue.”

“That’s why She’s ineffable.”

“You know what Lucifer is, right?”

“Hm?”

“Un- _eff_ -able.”

It was a very horrible joke. But it made Michael laugh. Twice as hard because it was from him.

The radio kicked back in.

The days were bright. Good weather seemed to follow them. Hastur was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something supernatural to that. He couldn’t think of a way to test it though.

* * *

_T_ hen one night Michael had a nightmare.

The threat of rain had kept them inside. They’d slid open the shade that hid the sunroof over the bedroom after sunset, in case the cloud cover had stories to tell.

Hastur lay curled up around the shape of Michael in the gray-dark. He felt the first clench as she curled tighter around herself, heard a whimper with the first thunder.

Then lightning struck.

The flat lands rolled out to the west of them. Lightning hammered in sheaves like the gods’ wheat, striking and scorching, then rising again. You could imagine a titan wrecking havoc. For centuries, humans had.

Hastur knew there was mixed advice about waking someone in a dream. Or was that sleepwalking? But he knew every flash of lightning made her wince, or vise versa.

“Hey, doll?”

Michael flinched, didn’t answer. Hastur put a hand on her shoulder, prodded carefully.

“Michael? Hey, Michael, wake up.”

She yelped and sat up, hit the ceiling and fell again, wincing and curled up in his arms.

“You alright, doll?”

“Yeah.”

The RV rocked in the wind.

“Quite a storm.”

“It’s fine, we’re grounded,” she said.

“You were crying out just then.”

“I… It’s nothing.” She winced.

Hastur adjusted his hold, realized it was slick with something on his hand.

“Michael, you’re bleeding.”

* * *

_T_ hey sat in the kitchenette a few moments later, the one yellow bulb burning overhead, the storm shouting and murmuring like a confused drunk. Half a dozen shafts of lightning fell every other minute or so or, more accurately, any moment Michael winced.

It was that scar on her back, the one like a knife had taken a walk. It had opened somehow, its edges sore and swollen, shining with fresh blood. Michael had given short orders about lavender oil and now Hastur worked with an ice water infusion and a towel while Michael peeled sticker stitches in her lap.

“What’s this one from?” he asked.

“They were all pretty long ago.”

“Back when you fought Lucifer.”

She winced with the next lightning bolt.

“Well, yeah…”

Another wince. Another shaft of fire wheat.

Hastur made a calculation with just his eyes. “I’d hate to see the other guy,” he said, “but I hope he still hurts too.”

* * *

_I_ t was the morning after, under a blue sky in Indiana. Michael set an iron griddle on the fire and set to making pancakes. Hastur was taking it slow this morning, still washing up in the too-small shower stall behind the kitchenette.

New thunder tumbled across the empty sky and the archangel Gabriel landed outside the campsite in a column of light and rushing wind.

Michael, used to these theatrics, threw up her wings in defense to shield the fire and her griddle. She didn’t look up.

“Always stick the landing!” Gabriel announced.

Michael smiled and miracled two more plates from the kitchen. She looked around for any signs of sulfur and seismic activity. Oddly enough, however, these didn’t come.

Frowning she flipped the pancakes over.

“Good morning, Gabriel.”

“Michael. Nice clothes.”

“You too.”

Gabriel had let go of corporate grays for an only slightly less formal corporate casual (lots of lavender still, but a new sprig of red in his necktie). Michael had a theory her friend had felt insecure without a tie ever since their invention.

“You are in a good mood,” she observed.

“I am in a _great_ mood,” he said. “Look at you—embracing human social conventions about the outdoors.”

“And you’re looking well.”

The archangel’s broad grin turned nearly sheepish. “I have been _very_ well. Actually, more well than ever, I think. I’m having trouble remembering not feeling this good.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What? Why would something be wrong?”

“Well, you’re here, and not with Beelzebub,” said Michael. “How d’you find me anyway?”

“I’m just popping out. I told them I’d be right back. Your lightning storm is trending.”

“My… Oh.”

“You alright?”

“I’m… I’m getting alright,” Michael confessed. “I was dreaming about the battle. Before the Fall. I don’t want to talk about it. Stay for pancakes?”

“Will do.” Gabriel grinned again. “I would love some pancakes. You know, I’ve eaten a bit so far, and it’s _not_ so bad.”

“What did I tell you?”

“You were right. I was wrong. I can admit that, now that the stakes aren’t the literal end of the universe.”

“Good for you.”

Gabriel miracled a very clean log to sit on, still beaming. Sitting at ground level, his knees were almost to his ears. He looked like a well-dressed frog.

“So, I was talking with Bee,” said Gabriel, “and we heard through the grapevine that you and Lucifer had a more recent falling out?”

Michael dropped her smile. “How did you hear about that?”

“Well, like any thin-skinned wannabe despot”—Gabriel shrugged—“he blew up about it on Twitter.”

“You know I don’t do social media, Gabe.”

“Kinda surprised you didn’t just, y’know…”

“What?”

“You _know_ …” Gabriel clicked his tongue and moved a finger across his throat. “End it there.”

Michael paused at the griddle, then miracled away the fourth plate. “It was one day after the war trials ended, Gabe. I wasn’t about to restart things. That game is over.”

“Yeah, but he might be… still playing.”

“There wasn’t really a good choice in the moment. I’ll be on the lookout.”

“You planning on visiting the office anytime soon?”

“I’m officially retired, so, no.”

“I just mean, they got the holy water back. What about that trumpet?”

Michael pulled back the plate of pancakes as he reached for them. “What about it?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around if we want the world not to end.”

Michael relaxed. “You have nothing to worry about, Gabe.”

“Oh?”

She handed him the plate. “Besides, no one would show up even if I blew it, right?”

“Eh, well, I think there’s a footnote on heaven’s pink slips saying we have to. You know, emergency protocols, if someone’s in need…”

“No one wants the war.”

“Lucifer might.” Gabriel nabbed the maple syrup from a basket of condiments. “I mean, he’s pretty scary, even to me. You’re the only one who’s ever bested him. Though, of course, we’ll come running, if we think you need help…”

“I’m not going to play his game anymore, Gabe.”

“Might be a good idea to play it one more time. I’m just saying.”

“It’s cruel. I’m done with cruelty.”

Gabriel eyed the other plate. “You traveling with anyone?”

“Hastur.”

“What?”

“What?” Michael countered.

“What about Ligur?”

“He hasn’t reappeared. We think he might be here in America somewhere.”

“Oh. So you’re just both…”

“No, we’re not _just_ both.” Michael smiled at his shock. “I like him.”

“You… do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows did a few calisthenics. “I mean, you do you. I just didn’t think you liked… I dunno, the… He’s a bit scruffy, isn’t he? A little, er, muddy. You like him in spite of—”

“I like him. I like scruffy and muddy. And not ‘in spite of’ either.”

Gabriel put up his hands defensively, balancing his plate on one knee. “Okay, okay. I’m… I’m sorry. It was shallow of me to make remarks…”

“Good for you, Gabe, apologizing.”

“Bee’s got me on this kick. I admit when I’m wrong, and they always tell me when they’re right.”

Michael burst out laughing, then she noticed something. “What happened to your arm?”

“This?” Gabriel pulled his sleeve down over a bandage. “This is just aftercare. You know me.”

“I do. Wow. Trust. That’s nice.”

“It is. Bee is very nice—but honestly don’t tell them I said that.”

Michael laughed. “Here, let me give you some lavender ointment at least. They used to love that.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I insist. I’d meant to get you two a present.”

Gabriel blushed as he tucked the small bottle away.

There was a huff from behind them: “What’s he doing here?”

Michael glanced back and saw Hastur in the doorway. He was pulling on his coat slowly but there was an air of haste about him. His dark eyes were wary. Michael suspected he’d been on alert since the thunder rolled.

She smiled reassuringly. “Gabriel just dropped by,” she explained.

“Unannounced?”

“I’m not here to judge,” Gabriel insisted. “You know, I feel like I should be saying that a lot lately? It feels good.”

“What do you want?” asked Hastur.

Gabriel was taken aback, so Michael answered, “He was just checking in,” then added to Gabriel, “I don’t know where the trumpet is, Gabe. I broke it in half and threw it over the Dover Cliffs. It’s probably smashed to pieces by now.”

Gabriel grimaced. “Well…, thank heaven then.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Why not take some pancakes back to Bee? You should be enjoying your honeymoon.”

Gabriel grinned a bit stupidly. “Yeah. Good to see you again, Michael. Take care, Hastur.”

“Sure.”

Gabriel picked up the plate of pancakes and carried them to a bit of meadow several meters away. Thunder rolled, lightning struck, and he was gone.

Michael shook her head and plated up the rest of the pancakes. “He’s adorable. Do you remember when Bee used to steal his halo?”

Hastur was staring at the scorched point of departure. “He used to lie for you, right? When you went out to see Ligur?”

“Yeah, and I for him.”

“You think he was lying just then?”

Michael’s movements slowed. “You know… something’s bothering him.”

“How d’he find us?”

“Our storm made the news. It’s nice of him to worry.”

“Yeah.” Hastur crouched by the fire and sat stiffly, accepting the pancakes. “Big oaf took the syrup…”

Michael miracled a new bottle from their stores. “So what’s in Indiana?”

“Not enough needle exchange programs. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Sure.”

* * *

_I_ n hell, a bottle of maple syrup shattered on the floor.

Lucifer helped himself to a pancake while Abaddon held the archangel down. The demon of destruction was watching warily as the Infernal King smiled from his throne. A dozen other demons were standing by, equally terrified. They were all ready to serve if it meant they wouldn’t be the next ones on the floor.

“Very good, Gabriel,” said the devil. “I didn’t realize pain was such a strong motivator for you.”

Somewhere in the dark recesses of hell, someone screamed.

“You said you’d let them go!” Gabriel pushed Abaddon off with a snarl. Three more demons jumped him and pinned him to the floor, which was tar black and cracked with blue sulfur.

Lucifer sighed, unimpressed. “I will let my demons go when I choose to, because they are _mine_. And I will let your little ‘bumblebee’ go when you give me what I want.” To Abaddon he said, “Abby, get him up on his knees.”

Gabriel sneered and fought the whole way.

“You know, I thought what I needed was my right-hand them back, but you’re going to do more for me restarting this war than I could ever have done with just a demon by my side.”

“As if I’d ever work for you.”

“I don’t get it,” said the devil. “I thought you liked subjugation. Isn’t that one of the little games you play?”

“You have no idea what love looks like, Lucifer.”

“If we’re being honest here, _Gabe_ , neither did you lot until about a week ago…”

“We didn’t _remember_. There’s a difference.”

The devil shrugged. “No matter. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” The devil rolled up another pancake and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. “You know, Mick’s quite the cook. Maybe I should put her in my kitchen once I’ve finished ripping her wings off. I don’t have a kitchen yet, but I could make one, just for the special occasion.”

He stood up and tossed the plate away. It shattered to pieces beside the syrup. Both glass and stoneware melted into the burning floor. He stepped forward and grabbed the archangel by his tie.

There was another scream from the prisons and Lucifer rolled his eyes, then kicked Gabriel hard in the stomach. He yanked the tie into a chokehold.

“You’re misbehaving, Gabriel. And here you used to be such an obedient little pigeon. Now, Beelzebub will stop screaming in the infernal fires of torment as soon as _you_ go to the Dover Cliffs and _get me that trumpet_. Then the two of you can have a lovey-dovey reunion while I’ll decide which of you will kill the other when _my_ war starts.”

He tilted his head to listen again.

“Unless you just want to bring me Michael, you big baby.”

Gabriel spat. “Fine, I’ll get the trumpet.”

The devil patted the angel’s cheek with a laugh and strolled away.

“But I’m doing this for Bee. I don’t belong to you.”

Lucifer groaned and draped himself back on his throne. “All you big, strong angels of judgment. So worried about punishment. So on-point with your excuses to keep your hands clean. But, you know, I think Michael will understand. She’s different.” He grinned like a cat. “Like me.”

* * *

_“_ I _spent last night in the arms of a girl from Louisiana. And though I'm out on the highway my thoughts are still with her…”_

As they headed from the Great Lakes Region to the Dakotas, there was still Garth Brooks on the radio and the only topography for miles were run-down buildings. There were two kinds: barns branded “Cheap Fireworks,” and smaller, seedier sheds closer to the road and only marked “XXX”. Potholes and unpaved stretches of gravel road broke the monotony (and about half the daily traffic). Now and then there were billboards so offensive, Michael and Hastur took turns razing them with lightning and fire.

“Toasty,” Michael remarked of the last one—an incinerating portrait of a priest selling politics.

“Rushmore next,” Hastur suggested, as the flames shrank in the side mirrors. “Ligur used to talk about it.”

Hastur was driving today. They were about halfway through Ligur’s travel list. There had been sigils at each one, and that was promising.

_“Operator, won’t you put me on through. Gotta send my love down to Baton Rouge…”_

There were still an abundance of “X” marks on their map. Still, other unmarked lights twinkled, including a pair on the west side of South Dakota. Michael and Hastur aimed to make the sunny coast before the first frost fell.

“What else is at Rushmore?” Michael asked.

“A white man’s dick move,” said Hastur. “They stole that land from the natives and then ‘consulted’ with them about putting a bunch of white guys on their sacred mountain, like it was some kind of compliment. Less than a century ago. I mean, imagine if someone decided to go carve St. Peter on Mount Zion and told the Jews they should be grateful for the tourism.”

“I thought demons favored idolatry.”

“I’m retired now. I can call bullshit when I see it. Besides, it’s on Ligur's list.”

“That settles it then.”

“I mean, I’d go there anyway. Lot of places I wouldn’t mind taking a look at, if they’re on the way.”

“Where’s the fascination?” Michael asked. “I mean, this country’s big and it’s young and a bit demented, but is that really it?”

“That’s how it is now,” Hastur corrected. “This place used to be a paradise.” He steered them around a pothole. “It was practically a continental Eden.”

“Before humans?”

“Before _certain_ humans. The more recent arrivals thought it was a new heaven, and that somehow that meant it was theirs. And I’ll beg pardon from present company, but they were all too heavenly minded to be any earthly good.”

“How so?”

“Didn’t bother to learn. Just plowed on through.”

“So, not much different from us.” Michael let her eyes fall on the map until he stared back out at the road, then looked at him sidelong. Hastur was sucking his teeth again. He did that when he was figuring things out. “You don’t think so?” she asked.

“I mean, yeah, maybe, us awhile ago at least.” Hastur cleared his throat. “I mean, hardly matters why now: Hell doesn’t waste resources on America. The privileged waste enough for everyone.”

“So you never came here?” she asked.

“Well, I tried to tempt a medicine man once.”

Michael didn’t fight a smile. “How did that go?”

“So I go up to him, and I tell him I’m an evil spirit, and you know what he tells me?”

“What does he tell you?”

“He tells me to stay and have a rest until I feel better. Until I feel better!”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Stay?”

“Yeah, I stayed. Free food.” Hastur navigated another pothole.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. When Michael looked up from the map again, she saw him frowning at the horizon.

“So… did you?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Feel better.”

“Oh. Yeah, just a bit. I mean, on principle I tried to feel like shit. At least like _crap_. To keep it professional. But I felt a bit better, by comparison.” Hastur shrugged. “Anyway, I want to go to Rushmore and snapchat all those dicks in a photo. Turn all that pride into something trivial and childish. That would also make me feel better.”

“We’ll do that then.”

“Though not much, by comparison.”

“Of course not.”

“So after _that_ , I’m going to dry up the Dakota Pipeline and fill all those reserves with, I dunno, lube.”

“Lube?”

“Fine, something good for the earth, um… sand?”

“Trees.”

“Trees in pipes?”

“They’ll be damned to explain it.”

“Point.”

“Can I come?”

“Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to do this to Gabe & Bee. Lucifer's gonna pay for every bit of it, don't worry.


	7. Is There No Physician?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hastur gives a history lesson, Rushmore gets five o'clock shadow, a political bakery run by two familiar faces is visited, pain is managed, and love is blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: colonization, Rushmore facts that are terrible as usual

“ _Y_ ou know the douchiest part of it all?”

Hastur was ignoring the No Smoking signs along the Avenue of Flags. Most demons wouldn’t have been gracious enough restraining themselves to tobacco alone, but he was giving gracious a try. The trickle of tourists around them cast him shade. He didn’t care.

Beside him walked Michael. She wore a sunny yellow number with an empire waist. It stopped halfway up her thigh and swung like a bell. She was nursing a strawberry lemonade that he wished was him.

“The douchiest part of which?” she asked, peeping over pink sunglasses.

“The treaty before the intruders took that mountain.”

Hastur pointed. The chiseled faces of Presidents Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln stared up and over their heads towards the Black Hills.

Michael said, “You can call them ‘the white man,’ you know. Historically, it’s not inaccurate. They were white. They were men. They were collectively—that is, meriting a ‘the’—working to undermine the sovereignty of the native and uprooted population…”

“I’m a demon. I’ll call them what I want, those dicks.”

“So what is the douchiest part of the treaty of said dicks?” Michael asked.

“The douchiest of the douchey things,” Hastur explained, “was they phrased the treaty granting the locals’ land ownership valid ‘so long as the buffalo shall range’—a phrase which was taken as poetic in that era to mean ‘forever.’ Then the settlers hunted the buffalo out of existence.”

“That is douchey.”

“The douchiest,” Hastur agreed. “It’s a fuckin’ asshole move. It’s the kind of bureaucracy that would get you a promotion down in hell.”

“Is promotion a good thing in hell, relatively speaking?”

Hastur shrugged. “It just means you get tortured for stuff your underlings screw up. Then you have to go and torture them just as bad or worse. Chain of command.”

“Sounds like a chain of abuse.”

“Same difference there. It’s hell.” They passed the row of stone frame doorways into the empty amphitheater. Michael climbed up on the nearest bench for the view. Hastur stayed on the ground for the same reason.

“So,” said Michael, swaying a bit with a smile, “how much do you think it costs for the cleanup crew to pick the moss out of Jefferson’s nose?”

“Given parking’s eleven bucks a pop, I would say… lots,” said Hastur. “Can I use your phone camera?”

“Sure.” She stepped down and handed it over. “Just let me bless the flora and fauna first.”

Hastur stole a sip of her lemonade, so she stole his cigarette. He set up the camera while Michael cast a silent blessing across the mountainside. The pines on the heights looked suddenly brighter and a film of lichen gave Washington and his neighbors a sudden and sickly five o’clock shadow. The whole ceremony was funny to look at. She had the cigarette pinched in her teeth all the while and conducted it with her hands like the leader of a chorus.

Hastur passed the phone back. “Don’t even need snapchat,” he said.

“Don’t _need_ , no.” Michael added a horns and halo feature to the frame. “But it’s a nice keepsake.”

“You don’t do social media, you said?”

“I heard a demon invented selfies.”

“I can’t take credit without lying. Wait, I’m taking credit.” Hastur plucked the phone back. “Lily has an Instagram. We’re annoying our peers with this.”

“Are we?”

“Because I say so.”

“They might think it’s cute.”

“You’re kidding. That’s my serious face.”

“You’re almost smiling. I hope I’m not rubbing off on you.”

Hastur took one glance around the empty outdoor theater, then kissed her up against a pillar. “Pretty sure rubbing off is somewhere in the mix…” 

“You naughty demon,” Michael teased.

“I can’t help it if I’m encouraged by a naughty angel.”

“Maybe we should take this back to the RV.” She grinned and, yes, Hastur was smiling too. He couldn’t help himself. He felt something clench in his chest, but it wasn’t pain. Not quite. Solace. Happiness. What else weren’t demons allowed to feel?

“Michael, you know, I…”

“What?”

Hastur hesitated. “I, um, I probably should see what Lily’s up to.”

“Oh.”

A voice behind them said, “What on earth are you two doing here?”

Hastur turned, annoyed, and spotted someone with an angel’s aura not six feet away. They were short and curvy and had straw-colored hair gathered into ponytails above their ears. The whole look of their wardrobe was summed up in one word: frills.

Michael recognized the open face. “Sandalphon?”

Another voice said, “Wait, did I just hear Michael?”

The next moment Uriel appeared at the top of the steps. She wore sunglasses in her dark hair and was carrying a parasol. “I knew it.”

“Hi, Uriel.”

“What are _you_ two doing here?” asked Hastur suspiciously.

“We’re taking the tour,” said Uriel. “We just opened our bakery and thought we’d take advantage of the employee discount. Then we saw the, uh…” She pointed to the mountain.

“Strange goings on these days,” said Hastur, tending to his cigarette. “Definitely something supernatural.”

* * *

_A_ few minutes later they had walked back down the Avenue to _The Last Buffalo_ , the bakery where Sandalphon and Uriel managed a staff of a dozen employees.

“It’s a sustainable cafe,” Uriel explained.

“Name seems in bad taste,” remarked Hastur.

“Rather, it comes with the blessings of the locals. Sandy does activism on the weekends. I write letters to senators and miracle them to bypass the front desks, to annoy the cronies properly. Once we make enough, we’ve buying back the land.”

“They won’t let you.”

“They will if I won’t let them sleep. Angel of visions, remember?”

The café had a cottage aesthetic. The first and second floors housed hardwood seating and the attic level served as the angels’ apartment, which was all sunflower motifs, right down to the curtains.

“It’s small, but it’s not like we need a bed,” Sandalphon explained.

They invited Michael and Hastur to stay for free coffee, setting up a table near the register. Uriel explained her experiments in baking and Sandalphon gushed about the new fair trade blends.

“We didn’t realize anyone else had come here,” said Uriel presently, checking the till. “We only saw the news that someone had turned the Avenue of Flags into one of pirate flags from around the world. It was clearly supernatural, so we investigated to see if it was anyone we knew.”

“And was it?” asked Michael.

“Never found out. But we liked it here too much to leave.” Uriel shrugged. “What about you two? Taking the tour?”

“Making mischief,” Michael explained.

Sandalphon returned from checking the cinnamon rolls. “And that explains the pipeline,” she said.

“You’re so predictable, Michael,” said Uriel fondly. “And, Hastur, you dragging her along or is she dragging you?”

“We’re both dragging each other,” said Hastur calmly. He was still smoking, his free hand idly turning the No Smoking sign on the coffee table.

Sandalphon made a face, then snapped her fingers. The cigarette turned into a churro.

“Hey!”

The ex-archangel smiled, syrupy sweet. “Sorry, there are children present.” She pointed to the corner of the room. Hastur sighed and miracled his coffee into beer out of spite.

“I’m going out on the porch,” he told Michael.

“Don’t get in trouble without me.”

“Not much fun that way.” He kissed her forehead.

Uriel watched Hastur let himself out, then stared at Michael smiling after him.

“Well,” she said. “Well, well.”

“What?” asked Michael.

“First Ligur, now that one,” said Sandalphon, leaning on the register. She was kicking one shoe at the tiles and smiling idly. “Thought you were over bad boys?”

“I don’t think of either of them as bad,” said Michael.

“He’s a bit grubby.”

“I _like_ grubby.”

“We all have our tastes,” Sandalphon sighed. “I’d just need to have that one in the dark, sorry.”

Michael frowned.

“We’re just teasing, Michael,” said Uriel.

“Well don’t, because I’d have him any way.”

Sandalphon and Uriel exchanged a smile, this one rather impressed. Uriel patted Michael’s arm apologetically. “Alright, so why the States?”

“We’re looking for Ligur, actually,” said Michael. “He said he’d be here. So much was reset after the war. We don’t know if he survived, but we keep driving…”

“Maybe the flags are his,” Uriel suggested.

“He always liked irony."

“I hope you find him,” said Uriel. “Hastur, he’s being good to you, right? I’ve sworn off demon-thwarting, but I’ll make an exception.”

“I appreciate that, Uriel, but he’s been a gentleman.”

“Aw…” Uriel and Sandalphon exchanged another pair of playful smiles.

“Oh, stop it.”

“It’s too cute,” said Sandalphon. “Michael, you’re too cute. Uriel, isn’t she too cute?”

“Knock it off, guys,” said Michael, but she was blushing a little.

Uriel cleared her throat. She sobered a little and tapped one finger over the back of her hand; a gold sun tattoo masked her scars. “Hey, have you heard from any of the other demons lately? Besides Hastur?”

“No, why?”

“Um, Ariel texted me the other day. Abby’s not answering his calls. Things seemed to be going okay, so he’s worried.”

“I’ve been looking at one of our old EO maps,” Michael admitted. She snapped her fingers and summoned her map from the RV. Uriel leaned forward as she spread it out on the table. “Whoa…”

“What’s whoa?” asked Uriel.

“It’s just… there are fewer lights now than I remember from this morning.”

“Is that bad?” asked Sandalphon.

“Is it?” asked Michael. She ran a finger across a few 'X' marks, now devoid of light. “I mean, maybe they’re just traveling somewhere else.”

“You don’t suppose Lucifer is up to something?” asked Uriel.

“Why would the demons do as he says? They’re fired,” said Michael.

“You know, hell isn’t run like heaven, right?” asked Uriel. “There’s a lot of fear.”

“But let’s not jump the gun and start worrying,” Sandalphon reminded them.

“Maybe I should,” admitted Michael. “I ran into him at a bar, just a week after Armageddon. I don’t know if you guys follow his Twitter…”

The two angels shook their heads distastefully.

“But Sandalphon’s right,” said Uriel. “We shouldn’t worry too much.”

“He was looking for the trumpet to start the war,” said Michael.

“That _is_ a little worrying,” Sandalphon admitted.

Uriel considered this. “Michael, you know Lucifer was always trying to push your buttons.”

“I know. That’s why I told him to fuck off, but not… never mind. Do you think I made a mistake? That’s the last I heard from him. Gabriel said he was pretty upset.”

“He has to make everything about him,” Uriel scoffed. “Odds are he’s sulking somewhere in the bottomless pit, whining about how he didn’t get to show off how badass he thinks he is.”

“What if I did the wrong thing?” Michael asked. “What if the demons are disappearing because of me? It’s already my fault for fighting Lucifer to begin with. And…” 

“And what?"

Michael shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“You don’t really think that you _shouldn’t_ have fought that blowhard?” asked Sandalphon.

“I do, actually. It set the whole stage for what happened after. It’s the whole reason we all have so many scars and…” She broke off, but glanced out the window at Hastur, who was happily etching dirty words into a tabletop with a bent paperclip.

“Michael, take it from someone who’s had to learn how to admit to her faults,” said Uriel—“and, believe me, it was really hard. I was full of rage. And Sandy was very patient.”

“I was,” said Sandalphon, smiling fondly. “Didn’t know I had it in me.”

Uriel returned the smile, then said, “Be a little more merciful on your past self. That shouldn’t be hard for an angel like you. And whatever happens, if you need us, just call.”

“Thanks.”

“Between you and Gabriel, I’m glad to see we’re doing okay,” said Uriel. She took one last sip of her coffee, then stood up and patted Michael’s hand. “You two be careful. With any luck, we’ll all just settle, become like the humans—not good or evil, just… people, trying to live our best lives.”

“Seems like a good idea.”

“Stop by anytime.” Uriel lay a hand on Michael’s shoulder carefully, then slipped into the kitchen.

* * *

_A_ t the next campground, they ate s’mores and drank bug juice—not the kind of bug juice Hastur would have preferred, but enough to make themselves both a bit sick by the end. By then Hastur had lit up a joint. Michael passed a whiskey bottle and pinched the stub from him in return. He’d expected she would, let her for now, and smiled.

He was smiling a lot lately.

At length, Michael sat up and poked the fire, a bit clumsily, her legs crossed. Her knees bobbed a bit. It made him think of an anxious butterfly.

“What is it, doll?”

“Abandoning this place,” she asked, “was it hell’s unanimous decision?”

Hastur growled. “Nah, but it was final.”

“No one asked you?”

“Outvoted. You know, this place used to be beautiful.”

“Still is.”

“Doesn’t matter now. It’s wounded, infected, dying.”

She took another thoughtful drag. “I don’t feel like sleeping. Think there’s a karaoke place open?”

“Out here?”

“We could rent a movie.”

“People don’t rent things anymore, doll.”

“One of those shops? With all the X’s.”

“Too far.” It was childish, but he baited, “I got a collection. You got a VHS player?”

“A what?”

“A whatever.”

She curled a mischievous smile. “You wanna get drunk and watch porn?”

“Perfectly natural pastime.”

“I know a better one.”

 _Damn._ He beckoned. “Give that back. I need it for the pain.”

She did.

There was a literal orchestra of crickets about. Hastur sank into the buzz of the air and the buzz of the alcohol (and the sugar). He always felt at home with insects, especially things that swarmed—orderly chaos, the cycle of life and destruction. Michael seemed more at ease, too, especially away from the cities and highways, under the stars.

“So, we’ve had not a few good bad days’ work,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Been meaning to ask, how’s your charity mission with your, er…” He made a motion with one hand.

“Wings?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Alright. It’s only a temporary fix.”

“Not a permanent one?”

“Doesn’t have to be. A miracle might last seventy years. If they only live sixty more…”

“Got it.”

“Can I show you?”

She’d asked before.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not so bad.”

“You don’t have to… I mean, I don’t have to see.”

“How’s it work, ’xactly?”

“Well, do you… do you know Bethesda?”

He hid behind his bottle. “In Maryland?”

“No.”

Hastur hesitated. At first he blamed the drugs. For most people, the worst side effect of weed was a bit of paranoia. (The next was the bad case of the munchies.) But then he admitted there were reasons he was afraid to hope instead.

She said, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to push…”

“I’ve been kinda pushing back, doll. It’s a’right.” Hastur drew a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? Nothing? “Go ahead.”

Michael sat up straighter. A moment later a water-blue light rose over them both. It edged every shadow with light.

Hastur had never seen angel wings in the dark. Heaven had tended to announce itself upon evil with floodlights. Now he watched the lines settle over their campsite. It was perfectly ethereal. The wings were nearly not-there, a kind of echo on the eyes rather than flesh-and-blood pinions. The size was hard to pin down too, like maybe they were a tent around the two of them, or maybe they reached right up into the moon.

Hastur wanted to scoff, but his voice came out awed. “Damn.”

He put out a hand, let his fingers fall across the feathers at her shoulder blades. He didn’t mean to—inhibitions were the first thing to go when he medicated, part of the appeal really. The touch of the wings was more of a breeze than anything substantial.

Michael shut her eyes and sighed a little as he combed his fingers through. “That’s rather nice, actually.”

“How do they work?”

The wings rose and fell a little as she breathed. “So the light or… you know… wherever it falls, it sort of numbs things.”

“Any other angels do what you do?”

“A few of them, but… Well, we lost Raphael.”

“Right.” Hastur pulled his hand back, picked up his last glass, then set it down. “I still don’t get why you’re scared of the dark.”

“I’m not.” Little sparks flickered down the line of her wings. “How is it though?”

“How is…” He realized something. Not at first. He’d blamed the alcohol.

Hastur stared at his mud-masked scars. The light cast them in cool blue. There was something more to it though. He wiped at the plaster. He could feel the tension around the boils release, like tectonics settling into sleep. The sting in the sores had cooled. Even the stiff scars felt slack.

Michael had set her cloth of mint liniment to one side. He pointed and she handed it to him. He carefully wiped at a place on his arm.

The bared sore didn’t bleed.

“Oh,” he breathed, staring at it like it wasn’t a part of his own skin. “Oh, _that_ Bethesda.”

There had been this place by the Sheep Gate, tucked into the shadows, a pool called Siloam. A freshwater spring where the unclean could heal. Hastur had heard rumors. One at a time, said the locals. You had to wait, had to watch. It would only work once a day. Turned out an angel would come down, stir up the current. There’d be a race, because if you could forget your pain for just a moment, if you could be the first to the water…

But, of course, demons needed not apply.

Hastur brushed his hand through the feathers again, marveling.

“Michael, was that you back then, doing that thing…?”

“That thing?” she mumbled tiredly. “I do things. Drown an army. Sic locust swarms. Heal the sick.”

“Take pain away.”

She nodded, opened her eyes again. “Does it work?”

“It… it does.” Hastur’s relief and shame fought one another. He pulled at the cloth of his jacket, swallowed hard. Dammit, he was _not_ going to cry. “This is… I mean, I’m never not thinking about it. I just… I…” He couldn’t even curse. “I… I like it.” Well, he couldn’t blame pain for stupid understatements anymore.

Michael smiled a little. “So does Ligur.”

“Figured he’d keep it to himself.”

“He didn’t want to, you know.”

“No?”

“I asked. He said he wanted to tell you first.”

“Typical. Probably to take credit. Does it work on you, doll?”

The smile strained a little. “No.”

For the first time in centuries, Hastur wished he had wings. It wasn’t fair. Most things weren’t fair. But most things were unfair to demons. “Giving what you can’t get? Seems something hell would do.”

“It’s alright.”

Hastur set down the empty glass, pinched out the joint and set it aside. He made a face for an endeavor he hadn’t bothered with in centuries…

“What are you doing?” Michael asked.

“I’m sobering up.”

“But…” 

Hastur smacked his lips, sucked a tongue that felt like fuzz. “Damn…”

“How is it?”

“I mean… It’s not a hundred percent, but… damn…” He tried to collect his thoughts, staring at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. Now that red hot brands weren’t nailing him down, so much of his mind was clear to think, but it was out of practice. He felt his eyes start to tear again, swallowed hard and fought the full feeling in his throat. It took awhile. This was impossible. But here it was. He didn’t feel like he knew this part of himself anymore, like it had been missing, become a stranger, a younger stranger who wasn’t as bitter only because he’d never had the chance to be anything except in pain…

At last he managed, “What’s your Bethesda, doll?”

“It’s not… I’m fine.”

“It has to be something. Where’s your Eden?”

“He didn’t say?”

“Who?”

“Ligur.”

“Nah, just said he was screwing you while he was screwing me.”

“There’s an idea.”

“You have a dirty mind, you know that, doll?”

“And you always know what I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been pretty forward.”

Michael drew up her knees and held them to her chest with one hand, took the whisky in the other. The firelight flickered on her hair, in her eyes. She didn’t look at him. That sort of remark usually got a coy smile at the very least.

“What’s the matter?”

“Hastur, do you really like how I look?”

Hastur leaned forward, let weed and euphoria loosen up his worried tongue. It wasn’t hard. How was it not hard moving? He felt he could fly, with or without wings. _Nothing_ was hard. This kind of wholeness could make you crazy. Make you have to grow inhibitions in place of grudges. Who knew what else it could make? He’d never known.

“I told you, doll, you’re lovely,” he said. “Can hardly look away.”

“Even with…” She flinched a little. “I mean…”

“It’s me. I just don’t like being seen.”

“Why not?”

“The…” He only hesitated a moment. “The scars, is all. Lot of ’em.”

“Everyone I’ve ever known has had scars. Why would that make me want you less?”

“I…”

“I mean, by that, don’t you hate seeing me too?”

“No. No, no.” Very carefully, Hastur traced her shoulder scar. “So you’re cracked up—nothing I’ve not seen worse of. I’ve told you before. You’re perfect.”

She shut her eyes again. He stared at the teardrop mole and felt his stomach roil.

“Really, I mean it.”

“Then have some mercy on yourself.”

“Don’t know if I can.”

“What’s stopping you?”

It was a hard question. He’d never had any reason to think about the impossible, after all.

“I can’t… I can’t picture anyone loving me when they see what I see.”

“You’ve never _seen_ yourself being loved?”

“Not like this. Seeing’s overrated anyway. I’ve been having sex in the dark for four thousand years,” Hastur said. He tried to smile, but it came as a grimace. “Could read the fuckin’ _Kama Sutra_ in Braille.”

“But you do want to see me?”

“I do.”

Michael lowered a hand over the fire and the flames curled up amid the charcoal wood like a sleeping cat. The rest of the world turned blue with wing- and starlight. Michael rolled out her shoulders, turned down her sleeping bag and pulled something out of it, a dollar shop paisley kerchief.

She said, “I’ll need your help though.”

Hastur watched as she carefully creased the cloth on the diagonal a few times and smoothed it over her knee. Then she reached up and tied it tightly across her eyes.

“Michael…”

“There,” she said. “Now I can’t see you.”

Hastur swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. “Just like that?”

“I might need your help, staying away from the fire, finding my way.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“You not having wings is what’s not fair. You having to choose between a bad day and a worse day is not fair. Your pain isn’t fair. And I am really so, so sorry.”

She reached a hand towards him, and waited.

Ligur had once said it would be a funny world if demons went around trusting one another. Faith didn’t come with their insurance package. But that didn’t mean they didn’t want to trust _someone_.

An angel trusting a demon though? It really was a funny world. Broken maybe, a bit of a mess. But a beautiful one. Enough to make you feel a bit blessed, a little perfect.

Even whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer explanation of Michael and Hastur's reasoning because I didn't want them to ramble on about it:
> 
> So, at first glance, moss on non-rolling stones is a bit silly, but when I was thinking of what _could_ happen, I thought, well, altering the rock would be a no-no. Outsiders coming in and changing the mountain are the main problem and in theory the faces could be replaced, maybe made even worse. I considered a landslide next, but that would destroy the local flora and fauna, damage the already damaged mountain, and still be fixable in theory. 
> 
> But _then_ I thought, what do the trespassers care about? Money! So, that settled it: The mountain belongs there and the upkeep is going to just get more and more expensive because the moss will not stop growing if the faces are visible. _Ever_. So eventually, the park owners won't want to afford to give Washington and his buddies a shave. So what would said assholes do? Right, they'd give it back, claiming the locals should do the upkeep, and then the moss will just do what the real owners want, and they can decide what to do with all of it.


	8. They Have Come and Devoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucifer tries to enlist the help of an entity who's not impressed by his monologue, Michael and Hastur visit Reno, and Eric has a bad time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: personified disease, references to past epidemics and unnamed illness, hand sanitizer, pain, hospital arson, casino gambling, supernatural violence

_S_ he had once been called Antonine. She’d been Collie a few times more. Sherry also. She’d been briefly a Scarlet. She’d never liked Scarlet, so she’d given that name to a friend. She’d only ever had a few friends, but she was always giving something away.

Her most recent name was Enza. Some time ago, there’d been a skipping rope song about a little bird that shared her name.

She had been living, if that was the word, at a General Hospital in Nevada for some time. Hospice care was the rumor, but she had outlived whatever physicians recalled her admittance. Hairless, sallow, and sunken-eyed, she seemed both very old and too young. She had cataracts, so many that it seemed she shouldn’t be able to stare at you from across the room.

But she did.

Enza sat in a wheelchair, thinking about her next name. There was something permanent about her, something inevitable, as sure as the only other certain thing in mortal existence besides taxes. But the name always changed eventually.

She’d stare at you with those blind eyes, and all the while it would feel like her eyes were creeping across your skin, burning at the papercuts, tightening your chest. No matter how often you washed your hands, that look never left you. You might see her chair parked outside the garden where the mosquitoes swarmed a pond. Or waiting just outside the restrooms whenever the soap ran out. She might linger in the lobby, where certain people protested NEPs as enabling or vaccines as lies. Or she might be in the elevator. You’d hold your breath all ten floors up.

In the past, humans hadn’t known about germs. They’d blamed the spread of disease on a personal atmosphere. They’d called it _miasma_. They had kept back the smell of the sick with flowers, or incense, or a mask like a bird’s beak stuffed with herbs, anything to block the plague. Nothing had truly worked.

There was comfort, one supposed, in the story.

But she was an older story and also, somehow, all the stories, too.

The young-looking man approaching her in the waiting room was the first to do so in decades, because nothing she was turned his stomach. He paused for a moment, because above a side table of helpful pamphlets there was a painting of St. Michael spearing Lucifer underfoot. As most paintings of the archangel, Michael was strong and effeminate while the devil was beastly and grotesque. The man seemed to take resolve from the artwork, and finished crossing the room.

“Well, there you are,” he said. “Long time.”

An assistant followed. He wore a paper mask and the clothing of an uncertain era. He also carried a clipboard he might have stolen. Before catching up, he nervously pumped a palmful of hand sanitizer from its dispenser. Under his arm with the clipboard, was a bouquet of posies. After lathering thoroughly with the sanitizer, he handed the flowers to the man in black, who offered them to the woman.

Enza’s cataract eyes flicked down once and then up again, and her visitor smiled a smile that would have been charming if she weren’t too old to be fooled.

“Lucifer.”

“Enza.” He sat.

She didn’t take the flowers. Eric coughed and then looked very worried.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, and also begged. He took several steps backward.

Lucifer sighed and set the flowers on an end table. “I heard you retired before the rest,” he said.

“As much as one such as I retire.”

“I can see that.”

“Your own work has ended. Aren’t you at ease?” she asked.

“It’s not in my nature,” said the devil. “Not until I get what I want.”

“You could want something else.”

“I have a one-track mind.” Lucifer smiled and pulled out from nowhere in particular a kerchief tied into a parcel. It clattered slightly as it sagged, not unlike the greasy Scrabble tiles in the patients’ game room. He set it on his lap and turned back the corners. “I recently came by these—”

_Picture, for a moment, an archangel on his knees, hands cut on rocks and on broken shells, wings disheveled, stumbling on white rubble where the Dover Cliffs tower to the skies. Picture hands full of shards of something like bone, hundreds of shards, but still not enough. And the tide is coming in, its salty fingers greedy…_

“—but not by some way to repair them.”

The parcel was piled with what had once been ivory white and glorious. The gold had been all but worn off, the yellow bone blackened, left to splinter into needles. It had been burned by lightning, leaving it no clean edge, no way to ever mend.

_Picture—if you can picture it—a love that would gather splinters the size of sand grains from the sea._

Enza could read the story in any wound, but she was not a living being that she should grieve. “Repair them for what?” she asked instead.

“For the end.”

Enza considered the splinters. “Impossible.”

“But you know bone. You know sinew. Cartilage…”

“I know how it all comes undone. Ask a healer how to make it whole.”

“You’re the expert I want,” Lucifer insisted. “If you cannot tell me how to repair this, tell me some other way I can get Michael to fight me.”

“You think I want you two to fight?” asked Enza curiously.

“Don’t you want revenge? Your kin weren’t just disbanded. They were disintegrated. All for nothing. Don’t you want it to _matter_?”

“You think it doesn’t?”

“Nothing will matter if it doesn’t _end_.”

“This game was forfeit,” said Enza. “No one but you is still playing.”

“I can _make_ them play,” Lucifer growled.

A nervous Eric made another round to the hand sanitizer. This time he treated his hair too, as a precaution.

The devil said. “My demons are ready. They’ll do what I say or suffer the consequences.”

“And the angels?”

“All I need is Michael. The strongest. The leader. I beat Michael in front of everyone, and I win. Heaven and earth and hell will see that I won the final battle, that I’m uncontestable, that I’m the _best_.”

“I’m an expert in severely communicable disease, Lucifer,” said Enza. “You lost this war the moment the idea of no war was planted. There is nothing so contagious as an idea.”

“How can you of all people resort to empty poetry?”

“Empty? Very well, there is nothing I can do against an angel with healing in their wings.”

“Then tell me how I can _wound_ one.”

“Wound an angel? Surely only another angel can.”

“You’ve no right to deprive me. The end is written.”

“Written, but apparently not spoken. You do know the definition of the word ‘ineffable,’ don’t you? The written word is young, but love is _old_.”

“I’ve a right to an end!” Lucifer slammed a fist on the end table. “This is my war, and it goes on as long as I say it does.”

Enza was not impressed. Pestilence seldom is. Like Death, she’s just too good at her job for distraction. “Do you think what I am has anything to do with _rights_?” she asked. “I fester in pigpens and abattoirs. I thrive in damp places. I walk with rich and poor, the wise and the fool. I overrule any triage. What rights do you think you have, in this place?”

She looked across the room and a doctor on the phone looked suddenly distracted, then uncomfortable. Suddenly, he coughed on both the phone and his clipboard. Someone said “Bless you,” and someone else said, “That’s for sneezes.”

Then they both coughed, too.

Enza looked around the room a bit more—around the room, and down the hall, and through the doorways to the secretary’s break room, where crayon drawings were stuck to a fridge. Lucifer looked more and more uncomfortable.

“There is nothing right or wrong about me, Lucifer,” Enza reminded him as she sat still before him, and also spread her reach everywhere. “If you want someone to mend broken bones, find a healer. Don’t you have those in hell?”

“Not a part of our aesthetic,” said the devil. “Pain is my crown, Enza. It is the oil on the wheels of any temptation. It shortens any thoughts of the future to a matter of hours but stretches hours to feel like _days_. I can do anything to anyone in pain, and they’ll do anything for me. I can look like an angel, but no blessing ever got me one tenth as far as the threat of pain ever did.”

“Now who’s waxing poetic?”

“I just need to know how to hurt Michael enough that she wants the end as much as I do.”

“Michael has wielded my plagues as much as any angel or demon in the past,” Enza reminded him. “I suggest you stop picking at this scab before it gets infected. You’ll have only yourself to blame if you lose a limb for your impatience.”

Furious, Lucifer stood up, his hands clenched. The splinters of burnt bone skittered across the floor. “You know I get what I want, Enza.”

“What do I know?” said Enza calmly. She never hurried. “I know the world was going to end and that you wanted that, and I know that it didn’t end. I suppose that means, I know you don’t get what you want.”

“We’ll see about that.” Again, the sword that could cut standing still appeared, and red eyes opened in golden wings. Enza still was not impressed.

“Goodbye, Lucifer,” she said, and vanished.

She didn’t leave of course. She was never as gone as people liked to think, and she hadn’t really been confined to a wheelchair. Or a hospital waiting room. Or a hospital. What she was didn’t _wait_ anywhere. She was always on the move.

“Eric,” said Lucifer, and beckoned the nervous demon.

“Y… yessir?”

“Pick up this mess.” He gestured at the bones and ashes. “Don’t miss a speck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who else is supposed to know Michael well enough, Eric?”

Eric hurried about with the kerchief. “Only Duke Ligur, sir, but the traitor Crowley sent him to Oblivion with holy water before, well…”

Across the room the doctor doubled over, blue in the face. A woman screamed and there was panic behind the front desk.

Lucifer scowled impatiently. “I know before _what_ , so what’s it matter?”

“Well, there’s someone who might know what he knew, Your Lowness. I only mean, they were close, er, that is, they worked together quite a bit, everyone might tell you, but last we checked he was, er, well…”

“Out with it.”

“I mean, he’s been missing since the trial, but I’m sure we could locate him, Your Infernal Disgrace.”

“Who?”

“Duke Hastur, sir.”

“Oh.” The devil let himself smile. “That’s different. You run ahead and let Gabriel know we’ll be needing his cooperation again soon. Tell him not to go anywhere.”

“Yes, sir.” Hands full of bone shards and dust, Eric vanished in a puff of alcohol-tinged sulfur and the devil glared at the gurney rolling down the hall toward the waiting area. He sneered, then swung his sword.

Even fire can’t chase Pestilence out indefinitely. So it was only because it made him feel better that the devil locked all the doors before he punched out the ceiling and took to the skies.

* * *

_N_ o visit to the West was complete without a visit to Reno, the city of sin.

“And it’s not gambling if you’re not guessing,” Michael said, just before they hit the blackjack tables.

They planned to stay a week, taking in the neon city, playing through the nights and during the days taking advantage of a bedroom that wasn’t low as a coffin.

Hastur got himself a burner phone, mostly because he refused not to look shabby, and they sent messages on where to meet, what to play, and how much trouble to cause. Sometimes they played at odds, each letting the other win. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford to look suspicious. It was just part of the game.

“Come here often?”

“Once in a lifetime.”

“Sure we haven’t met before?”

They were making bank, and the hotel attached to the casino was more than happy to have that bank spent back at least some of the way with room service, which meant so many foods with French and Italian names that they ordered practically by speaking in tongues. Michael always tipped generously, especially for the wine.

The rest of the money went elsewhere. Hastur teased Michael about a gambling vice, but her motives were clear enough and he wasn’t going to push they leave anytime soon. Michael wasn’t a demon. She refused to pay waitrons and gas station convenience store attendants in fool’s gold, and so redistributed real wealth. More than once, Hastur caught her on the wi-fi doing online banking for “Michelle Angelo.”

“We could go back to the East Coast again,” he mentioned. “New casino in Connecticut.”

“We still have to take Manhattan,” she agreed. “But have you ever been to New Orleans?”

“Can’t recall.”

“He wanted to go for Mardi Gras.”

“Then we’ll go there too.”

Hastur, on the other hand, paid for the stuff that _should_ have been free, and he did use fool’s gold. He didn’t miss how Michael would keep out of the way and let him, even smiled when he did. Hastur was beginning to understand how Ligur and Michael had gotten into their particular Arrangement. You could be clever to a point in the business of damnation, but when there were lines not to be crossed, it helped to have friends in low places.

Or lovers.

Michael still wore the blindfold to bed. The angel had, at a souvenir shop, also acquired a sleep mask that read, “See no evil” on it, for the laughs. Hastur threw back on his New Hampshire t-shirt after sex these days because (he’d admit to no one) he was starting to like the cuddling after. After six thousand years there were few new experiences to be had, but this was certainly an attractive one. There’d been no time for that in hell. Someone was always waiting up for you. And forget falling asleep together in hell—even assuming you _could_ find somewhere not a cesspool, get caught and you’d have no excuse to keep you from the rack.

The hotel bed was a ridiculous luxury. They could turn the lights on and off anywhere in the suite from the headboard, for one thing. The room was the size of a large apartment. They made use of the whole of it and it puzzled the staff to no end that there seemed to be at least half a dozen people renting the suite, at least for how many opened for room service wearing a bathrobe.

Michael had a preference for her current form, though, Hastur noticed. Whatever the bedroom itinerary, she always went back to it.

About a week in, he said, “So, I don’t want to sound like a jerk.”

“Why? Are you feeling ill?”

She was tucking her hair up into curls for the night out. He had a good view of her back, which she’d salved and painted silver. Her wings were out, filling the room with their whispers, but other than that she was naked.

Hastur lay on the bed, already in a shirt and trousers but starting to regret it.

“I mean,” he said, “did you really choose this form for Armageddon?”

“Female-presenting you mean?”

“Not that. There are plenty of female-ish forms more… warlike,” said Hastur.

“You mean not petite?” Her mouth was knotted in that halfway-to-a-laugh smile again.

Hastur almost lost his train of thought for that smile. “Absolutely lovely, too.” He coughed to recover. “But you were going to go one-on-one with the devil. Why not the more, er, traditional equipment?”

“It’s not like it affects my strength either way, you know.”

“I didn’t…”

She reached for another pin. There were a pile of them on the night table, all golden. “You remember Eve?”

“ _The_ Eve?”

Michael nodded. She winced and Hastur reached across to hold a curl so she could drop the arm. With his free hand, he helped her work out a stiff knot.

“What about Eve?” he asked, guiding her hand back to the curl. He nudged up behind her and helped a few more tight spots on her back, just for the thrill of touching her.

Michael hummed a little and leaned into it. She almost lost her train of thought. “He was always boasting about how she was the weak one.”

“He just sent a snake to do his dirty work.”

“He still takes the blame for it, loves it when the humans let him.” Michael sighed again. “And not just here. Eve. Beersheba. Tamar… He practically invented the patriarchy. I figured I owe them one to look ‘demure’ right before I kick his tail. Damage his pride, not just him.”

“No apocalypse now.”

“I’m still worried.”

“You beat him once.”

Her smile didn’t laugh this time.

That night they feigned surprise at yet another winning streak, and brought champagne back to the room to celebrate.

Now and then they were sure to lose, just to keep the casino manager from sweating under the collar. There were not a few backroom poker games as well, mostly with old souls whom Hastur recognized, who needed to be knocked down a peg.

It was the best stop on the trip so far, Hastur decided, causing trouble with as much lawful good and evil as possible (though Hastur threw in a bit of chaos at the seafood bar, just for old times’ sake). It was Sunday next either of them paid any attention to the day.

Michael sat by a doctor who was fighting PTSD, even to the point of them missing the planned night show. Hastur gave up on the slots and watched her over champagne so as not to seem obvious. She was losing. She had a way of keeping her eyes down that said it was on purpose. Once by accident she seemed to touch the stranger’s arm, let the hand linger despite the apology. The doctor was clearly here to take a load off her mind, and something in that touch helped the matter.

Hastur caught himself smiling, so walked himself back to their room, and tried to figure out why.

If he had to give it a physical description, he’d say that something in his stomach was unknotting. There was less of an ache in the area where most humans kept their adrenal glands. A secondary side effect of chronic pain was adrenal fatigue. You stopped thinking long-term, had to take more notes because bad sleep wrecked your memory. You were more easily distracted thinking about the next quick fix. But this clarity… He wasn’t about to push it away. The emotional side of it was something he had no name for though.

It was changing him. Or maybe that wasn’t the word. Something was coming back, had been doing so this whole lark, something only the stranger he’d been had known.

_“She’d be good for you.”_

He wondered what Ligur would have to say, if they ever found each other again.

Lounging back on a sofa in the room, Hastur turned open the map and checked all the X’s on the sparks along their route. (The map never showed you where you were. That would be too confusing.) They’d run across a few angels coming and going from Los Angeles—on tour for the hashtag “Angels in Angeles.” Now Hastur walked his fingers down the major highways and landed in Reno again, tapped a spark.

That one was new.

He dropped the burner phone in his pocket and threw on his grubbiest coat.

The hotel had on the roof a golf course, swimming pool, and, of all things, a garden. Hastur walked into its shade with his hands stuffed in his pockets, smoking like a chimney stack as he checked the ferns, the flowers, and finally the ponds in the low lamplight.

At last, satisfied he stopped at the deepest pond and pulled out the burner phone. He sent a snapshot, so Michael would know where he was. Then he whistled once, and a few bubbles sputtered out of the pool. Hastur leaned over a faux log and grinned at the many-warted head that ascended. The giant bullfrog looked around and, as if this were one final test of the premises, lashed out her tongue to snag a fly, then chomped it down.

Hastur sighed with relief. “Hey there, Lily.”

The familiar burped. Hastur gave her more prominent warts a tickle and she croaked happily.

“Sorry to be out of touch. Been having plenty of time to yourself?”

Lily was never very talkative, but communicated succinctly that there were now several tadpoles frequenting the streams of Styx, Lethe, and Mnemosyne carrying her genetic makeup.

“Good for you.”

But talking wasn’t the point of familiars. They could travel anywhere, remember any place. And they were a demon’s second set of eyes.

Which was how Hastur saw someone behind him without turning. Been wandering this place long enough, he thought. Could have done little better setting up his own neon sign.

With a disgruntled sigh, Hastur pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash behind him.

Eric shuffled backwards from the sparks, then from Hastur’s glass-dark glare.

“What are you doing here, Eric?”

“Oh, is that you, Duke Hastur?”

Hastur stood up. He was notably taller than the collective demon, and had reasons to be unintimidated by numbers, be they one or one thousand.

“Finally taking a vacation?” Hastur asked, and stepped forward.

Eric stepped back again. “Honesty?” He clutched a clipboard to his chest. He tugged at one spire of his hair until he’d yanked free a pencil. “Not really. I don’t actually like the idea of being unemployed.”

“Never know unless you try it.”

“You’re looking well. Quite, in fact. And, um, cleaner than usual…”

“Blending in,” said Hastur, and tossed the cigarette.

“Is that a ring?” asked Eric. “Why are you wearing a ring?”

Hastur ignored the question and spit instead. He reached in his pocket for his gloves, but thought better of it. Covering up would be more of a giveaway. He left the hand where it was. “No more chit-chat,” he said. He took another step forward. Again, Eric stepped back. “You just said you’re _not_ unemployed. Which means you’re here for something. What is it? Spit it out.”

“Well,” said Eric, and choked on the lingering smoke. “There’s been a recall of demons to the office as of late, those who, um, can’t prove their unemployment. Must be a bug in the system.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It… isn’t?”

“Dagon made the system. It only gets bugs if they say so. They’ve even filed the plagues of locusts. Now, _I_ got a pink slip. Guess the system works. Check that off your list and go. Or I might get annoyed.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that is my occupational hazard…”

“I don’t like jokes, Eric. What now?”

Eric drew a deep breath, then squeaked, “He wants to see you.”

“Must be frustrating, wanting what you can’t have. Go away.”

“I’m afraid I’m just the messenger.”

“How did you find me, messenger?”

“Uh…” Eric unfolded something off his clipboard. It looked remarkably like the map in the RV, except it hadn’t been modified with a certain color-coding element. Hastur stared at it, puzzled. The gold edging was especially troubling. That was not the aesthetic of hell.

“That looks like an Earth Observation map,” Hastur said.

“Oh, um, we just had one lying around,” said Eric with a shrug. “Everything’s been pretty mixed up. The whole ‘world not ending’ thing threw us a few curves.”

“Any of those curves have to do with the demons who are disappearing?”

“Oh, I’m not… I’m not supposed to talk about that, I’m afraid.”

“So it is happening? You should be afraid.” Hastur snapped his fingers and a pillar of flame disintegrated Eric right on the spot.

It was an old trick. Eric’s lot in life was eternal regeneration. When he’d first fallen, he’d burst into thousands of pieces and every one of them had grown back into another Eric.

So he’d be back.

For now, a nasty black smudge was left steaming in his place, and the clipboard’s edges were singed.

Hastur groaned and dropped his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered. He stole the map off the clipboard and studied it grimly. Definitely something from heaven’s files. Hastur considered setting it on fire, then decided the color-coding was too helpful. He folded it away in his pocket, then pulled on his gloves.

He gave Lily a nod and the bullfrog burrowed down into the mud. Time to head back downstairs and find Michael. They’d have to leave eventually. He reached into his pocket for his phone—

And pain exploded across his skin.

“Hello, Hastur,” said a voice. “I’ve missed you.”


	9. We Looked for Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer comes to claim his employee and Michael drives him off. Also, Lily is a very good familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: supernatural blood and violence, including magically inflicted pain; arson, fires, deep water in cold and darkness, references to past abuse, fighting injured.

_M_ ichael stopped at the casino gift shop after supper and stared at things in glass boxes for a long time. Then she took the slow way up to the room, dropping miracles along the hallways, half in a dream, distraught by a thought. It wasn’t gambling if you knew the outcome, but the profit here wasn’t the point. They’d searched a dozen bars and theaters. The sigils were growing fewer and farther between.

And what if Ligur had made them earlier, before the End? What if he never met them again? What if one day the sigils ran out and there was nowhere else to look? No place else to go?

She was thinking all this as she slipped into the room and called for Hastur. She spotted the map spread out on the table by the couch and frowned, crossing over to it. They didn’t leave their things out in the open. Housekeeping services were best kept in the dark about the nature of their guests.

Michael stared down at the map.

A bright light hovered over Reno.

Just then the power went out and the room plunged into darkness. Thunder rolled across the desert. The spark of light on the map burned an eerie red.

Michael felt something like lightning in her soul. Then it turned to fire. It seemed to claw out of her back.

Quickly, Michael folded the map and grabbed her wallet and the RV's keys. A sinking in her stomach, she left all else and ran for the door.

* * *

_H_ astur didn’t remember hitting the ground, but he was clenched up on the black spot that had been one of Eric. His back felt driven through with knives. Every sore was open. Every blister and boil ripped raw.

You never forgot the pain of the Fall. You never forgot because the devil could remind you of it any time. The speed of descent that seared you, the crash of impact that shattered you, the tar that melted your bones to soup every time they tried to regrow, while your soul screamed…

“Someone’s been spoiling for punishment,” said the voice. “Look at this. Five months out of Armageddon, and you can’t even remember how to kneel.”

Hastur coughed and nearly threw up. He struggled to raise his eyes and found himself staring at a smug looking man shape. It was definitely only the shape. It didn’t have the aura of a human. The smile was familiar, and not in a good way. Then the beast spread gold leather wings, opened red reptilian eyes, and left no doubt.

He was called “the Accuser of the Brethren” in the Bible. The Christians selfishly thought the title was about them, like they’d ever been kin to the first heartless bastard. What that title meant was far more sinister. Who better to know everything about you and use it like a weapon? Wasn’t it the one who had first pulled you out of flames of eternal torment and promised revenge? The devil could get on your nerves but only in the worst way—by setting them all on fire.

“Sorry, it turns heads when I walk around with the horns.” The not-man grinned. He sat on his heels, just out of reach. “What’s this anyway? Mighty Duke Hastur, lord of waste and rot and decay, caught off guard by _pain_?”

He moved closer and pushed a hand between Hastur’s shoulders. The knives of scarring and widowed joints stabbed deep as he forced the duke’s face into the dirt.

“You used to be so formal in the presence of your lord. Something’s got you soft.”

Hastur couldn’t answer. 

“But I’m being distracted. It really is such an inconvenience,” the devil went on, "but you see, Ligur’s dead, so Eric really couldn’t recommend anyone else who could help me.” 

Hastur felt the hand move to the back of his head. It yanked at his thin hair, forcing him to look up.

“I’m looking for Michael, actually,” the devil said. “If you could direct me in her, his, or their general direction, I’ll let you slink back down to hell with what’s left of your dignity. If not, I think I’ll have to get angry at you for whatever you’ve been doing. You should have chosen Vegas. You don’t have to talk about what happens in Vegas. But if you’ve been banging an angel in Reno, I think we’re really going to have to talk about that.”

Suddenly a brassy ringing clanged across the gardens like a school bell. The devil looked up in confusion. It took Hastur a moment to realize it was the fire alarm. The noise hammered nails into his head. 

“What the hell?” asked the devil, without irony. 

Suddenly, a blinding searchlight washed all color from the world. A bolt of branching, dancing lightning struck the garden, and the pool, and the golf court. It shattered everything that would shatter while charring a palm tree just a few meters away. Lucifer jumped out of the way as the tree trunk crashed between him and Hastur. When the noise settled, the alarm was still ringing out. Then the searchlight—which wasn’t a searchlight at all but a furious heavenly entity—landed with a peal of thunder. The boom rolled out in physical force like a wave.

There was nothing human about its presentation but the denim and the hair, and even that blazed loose in white flame that drifted upwards like an eagle’s crest. Wings unfurled in four additional pairs, and a sword seemed to be everywhere at once as the hand that held it both held it firm and yet never stood still. The archangel’s skin shone like bronze and every iridescent feather was edged with red fire. Eyes, a rainbow thousand of them, opened and glared towards the fallen son of the morning. The whole of the angel’s corporation blazed with light within light.

Michael landed on top of the tree trunk and where their bare feet touched, the log smoldered and collapsed into ash. The sword crackled like lightning. They stood in the gap between the devil and the demon. 

<Hello, Lucifer.>

It was a voice that flowed as shapeless as water between the words that were every language but none.

The devil’s eyes went wide and, for just a moment, he was struck speechless. Then he said, “Fuck.”

<Oh, so we have decided that’s the safe word? A bit crass, even for you.> Michael stretched every wing in a threat, then shot one pair backward.

Hastur caught his breath as his pain evaporated under their light. He stared up at Michael’s back, trying to gather his senses. There were more scars to this form, more welts and bad breaks. One of the wings stretched out was permanently twisted. Every limb had been scared or broken somewhere. There were even eyes put out.

But none of that could possibly be visible, Hastur realized, to anyone standing outside the fire. 

The devil checked nervously over one shoulder, as if giving the bells some thought. Then he looked back up at the angel and sneered. “How thoughtful of you, Michael. Letting the mortals flee the building. You do realize gambling is a sin.”

<You want to fight? Get up.>

Holding his hands palm out in a placating gesture, the Adversary stood with a nervous chuckle. “This was not what I had in mind, Michael. Where’s the spectacle? The drama?” He spread his hands and shrugged. “The audience?”

<Leave then, before I show you exactly what I have in mind.>

“Oh, I’ll leave. Soon as I have my employee back. I’m drafting everyone who can’t produce a pink slip.”

The angel eyes all narrowed. This was a summons because an instant after, a file folder appeared, glittering with gold plate in the empty hand. A pair of fingers drew a slip of paper out. It glowed with residual glory as the eyes considered it, then they turned the page towards hell’s prosecutor.

<“This Order of Release is to Confirm that Hastur, Duke of Hell, has been released from the service of hell and all obligations thereunto regarding but not limited to torment, combat, and obeisance to his Infernal Profanity, the Prince of Darkness, the Abomination, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, _et al. ad nauseum_ , that is, Lucifer the Fallen, the satan.”>

The slip vanished into the folder which safely winked back to some other dimension. By then, the devil was sneering.

“Never liked playing by the rules anyway,” he said. And red lightning struck and crashed like claws in all directions. 

The roof shook as it buckled. Soil cracked and lawn furniture slid. Michael staggered back to Hastur’s side as man-shape Lucifer suddenly grew into the beast that was the satan. He rose out of the roiling ashen clouds that followed—many-horned and brazen skinned. He tore the ashen trunk from his path and flung it from the roof. Then he stepped forward, towering over angel and demon.

“Now,” he rumbled. “I’ll be taking back what’s mine.”

The bright sword charged with lightning and lashed out. It didn’t matter that the target wasn’t in the blade’s range. The blow itself shot fire to the horizon and threw the beast backwards. 

The devil landed in, and so shattered, the swimming pool. A flood of chlorine washed down the slope of the crater he’d made. Broken glass tinkled in the aftermath.

Michael took one step forward. <Nothing here is yours. Now get lost, you abomination.>

The roof shuddered again. Hastur gripped at the tiles and glanced towards the small pond. Then he looked up at Michael, who was bleeding gold ichor but holding themself as tense as possible to conceal the obvious pain. The fire alarm kept ringing.

The devil righted himself with a snarl and pulled a sword from the air the size of a palm tree. He held it aloft, but hesitated, as Michael readied the ever-moving sword again. 

Then the devil growled low in his throat, and lowered the point of the weapon slowly to the ground. Where it touched, sparks caught and fire began to rise and spread. “Suit yourself,” he said.

And vanished.

Michael held their ground for just a moment, the thousand eyes searching every corner. Then the blazing searchlight went out. The extra wings folded into absence. The sword vanished. Michael dropped to the ground, gasping in pain, hair a mess, once again a human shape in frayed blue denim. 

Hastur crawled quickly to her side. They were both blotched with ash and shivering in pain. He found her hand and held it as the roof shook under them like a threat. The fires billowed and snaked towards them, flames licking their way up the few palm trees that had survived.

“Michael, we need to get out of here.”

“I just need a moment,” she gasped.

“Don’t have one.” Hastur picked her up and staggered to the edge of the pond. The pool’s integrity was failing; it was losing water to the mud. Still, when he whistled, Lily appeared. His familiar rolled her eyes left and right at the flames, and gave him a look that was just a little scornful. 

“Michael, I need you to hold your breath,” said Hastur. “And shut your eyes, and stay close.”

She nodded weakly and Hastur wrapped his long jacket around both of them. Lily dove into the water. He leapt after her.

And then they were shooting down like a drill into darkness. In that same instant the hotel collapsed in on itself, and Hastur could see the fire and ash and saw-toothed concrete chasing them down the portal like the end of the world. Next the earth closed in on them and there was just darkness and cold and the forever-plunge downwards. The chill iced his skin and clawed at even the tough shield of his jacket. There was no air. No light. Just the stink and the bottomless hunger of the grave.

* * *

_W_ hat Hastur did not remember was, after a small forever, they moved up again, pulled along by Lily through the cold, stifling earth. He also didn’t register how in their ascent they crashed into water, how the shock of it stole the last breath from his lungs and how he pushed through (and upward by sheer luck) in reflex until he broke from the water into another shade of darkness, gasping and hauling Michael after him to a shattered stone shore.

“Good girl, Lily.” He didn’t remember that either, though Lily wouldn’t forget the first compliment she’d ever received from him. 

There was a bit of light overhead, too high to reach them. There were midges and lime water and the whole world smelled of bone. 

“Fuck you, Eric.” He didn’t remember that either, but it didn’t matter, because he said it again when he woke up.


	10. Why Do We Sit Still?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucifer throws tempers in hell, Hastur learns first aid, and backstories are told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: supernatural and physical violence, talk of off-screen torture and past violence, and references to wounds, war, and murder.

_F_ our months passed. The devil’s temper did not improve. He had a thousand Eric’s tormented daily to satiate him. And at last, when this failed to make him feel any better, he called for Gabriel. Dagon hurried to comply, glad to be away from the right hand of a throne where brimstone constantly flared and fumed looking for meat to burn. She beckoned several chimeras from their guard posts as she went, hurrying her steps ahead of them all.

Gabriel was, of course, still in the cells.

In the past, the torments of hell had been very simple. There had been fire and darkness and stone. Then humanity had come up with new ways of harming itself, and it had seemed only suitable that similar terrors be added to the afterlife to torment their souls for such crimes. But the punishments that were kept on hand for wayward demons and captured angels were the same, always had been. There was fire and darkness and stone.

Dagon had spent weeks aching for hope. Freedom had been too near not to be tasted. And like fairy food draws mortals, the mortal world of freedom drew the appetite of immortals like Dagon. She hadn’t forgotten. No one had. But you had to be careful not to carry your thoughts on your face around the devil.

Dagon let her feet slow at the last corner, let her footsteps fall softer. She stopped and held up a still half-regrown hand that told the escort wait. Then she went ahead alone. Several paces from the holding cells, just past the fire pits, she set that same hand to the wall and stood still to listen to the singing.

No one could sing quite like an angel. Oh, humans thought they could. They described children’s playful lilting voices, or a man’s soft vibrato, or the rich tones of a mezzoalto, all as heavenly. But they blasphemed even as they tried to compliment. There was nothing so sweet or peaceful as an immortal voice singing of green pastures and cool waters. There was nothing so lovely in all the world, and all hell could do was make it lovelier still by being so very unlike to it.

Dagon drew a shaking breath and passed a hand across her eyes, then walked up to the bars of the cell and stared sadly in.

True to his word, after the trumpet was retrieved, the devil had let Gabriel see Beelzebub, but even after these weeks the former prince of Hell had not recovered. Rumor had it, they’d refused to reveal the location of their pink slip and still did. And still, the archangel doted on them with bandages and balms, using what little water was provided to keep burn wounds clean. He made fresh wrappings from scraps of his clothing until he wore rags. With matted hair and stone-bruised skin, he was a wreck to look at, but even then he could still sing.

Dagon waited for the song to finish, then sighed. Hearing her, Gabriel arched his wings reflexively over his ward. Dagon caught the scent of something soft and floral on the shifting air, then sick sulfur closed in again.

Seeing Dagon, the archangel relaxed just a little.

“He wants to see you,” she said quietly.

“You can tell him what I said before. I don’t know where Michael is.”

“You’ve had four months to think.”

“Not four months to _know_.”

Dagon swallowed. “Please. I can’t go back empty-handed.”

Gabriel hesitated. His violet eyes fell on Dagon’s hands. They were weak and small still, barely more than claws. “No, you can't,” he sighed. His expression went hard. “Stay here then,” he said. “You know I won’t leave them behind.”

That he wouldn’t.

Dagon nodded and let him out, but let herself in. “What is that scent?” she asked.

“Lavender.”

Gabriel turned himself over to the escort who were no more pleased with their task than Dagon had been. All of hell had once been a hive of malicious machinery driving its engines towards the apocalypse. From the decrepit state of its plumbing to the demotivational posters on the walls, the aim had been to _end_ , and so nothing had mattered keeping up on but the damnation of souls. And at the end, more and more, the torment of evildoers had been pushed to one side, left to the brimstone and sulfur to work out. The shift had been to the betterment of weapons, of war machines, or of poisons and pikes. Everything had become The War. Hell had been a pit that no one would miss if its efforts were buried.

Now that demons were back, there was only the machine to fuel again with no end in sight. To stop was to invoke their master’s wrath and, through three failed insurrections and one botched assassination attempt over the past six weeks, it was becoming all too clear how powerful that wrath could be.

Once again, Gabriel was led to the infernal throne in the profanum. Once again, he was pushed to his knees. Abaddon pressed her spear across his neck like a yoke and drove a knee into his back to keep him down. The devil lounged sideways, his made-up persona stripped away for the horned and monstrous brute he preferred. He didn’t bother to look at his prisoner.

“Just thought,” he said, “nothing else to do, I might as well ask again: Where is Michael hiding?”

Gabriel’s hands clutched at the spear as he gasped, “I told you. Michael’s retired. I don’t know where she is.”

“So she’s not interested in things like mercy anymore?” asked the devil. “Because leaving you here in this sorrowful state isn’t really merciful. Seems like Hastur’s rubbing off on her while he’s rubbing off on her, if you take my meaning.” He swung his legs down and glared over his knees like a gargoyle. “There has to be some way to get your team captain down here, _Gabe_. I want my war.”

“It was never your war.”

“It was always my war. I started it. I get to finish it. Now where is Michael?”

“Maybe if you told me something about the last time you saw her, I could make a guess.”

“Fair.” The devil snarled and stood up. The escort pulled Gabriel back to give the prowling king of demons some room to pace. “In typical dramatic fashion, she disappeared in the blaze of a casino in Reno. And, given Duke Hastur hasn’t returned to apply for a new corpus, they got out alive. Ideas?”

Gabriel had an idea—a sharp kick to Abaddon’s knee, then his hands were around the haft of the spear. He unfurled his wings and leapt. Satan had only an instant to draw his sword and parry, and even then the archangel was flung backwards only to catch himself on the air.

“Restrain the peacock,” the devil snarled at his demons. When they hesitated, he clenched his fist and several hit their knees with a scream.

“Is this how you expect to make your army fight?” asked Gabriel. “Threatening them with pain?”

“You’d be surprised how death proves the better alternative after a while,” said the devil, spreading his own wings. “But then you’ve been living the cushy life up in heaven and I doubt it ever occurred to you what your siblings down here have suffered.”

“And whose fault is that?”

They clashed weapons again. Infernal smoke and lightning tangling as they locked. Gabriel was a formidable foe, but he was weak, and, well, he was no Michael.

The fight took them to the dome of the profanum, but a backhand blow caught the angel with the flat of his enemy’s blade. The impact smashed him down into the sulfurous flagstones below.

The devil landed and clenched his clawed talons into the searing floor of hell. He realized no demons were rushing to his aid, then remembered why.

“Right, you lot are useless like this.” He snapped his fingers to cut the torment. “Now hold him down or there’ll be more pain.”

In a matter of seconds they had Gabriel once again restrained. He was bleeding gold from the corner of his mouth and every eye on every wing glared.

“You really think you can get us all to fight one another?” he asked.

“Oh, they’ll fight,” said the devil. “And you’ll have to fight back. This is my game. My rules.”

He kicked the angel hard in the face and then composed himself while Gabriel choked on a bloodied nose.

“You know, I would love my right-hand general to be at my side, helping me plan the glorious battle to come. They’re rather wasted in the sulfur pits, but if you choose to act like this, you might as well be turning the spit over the coals yourself, _Gabe_.”

It took another half a dozen demons to hold the angel down at that. The devil drew back a step and forced a smile under a wary stare.

“Temper, temper. Remember, wrath is a sin, little angel. If you weren’t so useful, I’d just tie you up instead. But I expect you’ll put the same diligence toward your next assignment that you did toward the first. Because if you don’t, you’ll be visiting several cells just to pay your little bumblebee one visit. I think I’ve made myself clear?”

“Michael should have killed you when she had the chance.”

“And she didn’t,” said the devil. “But I’ll be happy to let her try once the gang’s all here. You’re sure to find her _amenable_ , I think.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to come?” Gabriel demanded. “You can’t expect me to best the archangel Michael in combat. She’s undefeated. She’s the one who cast you down.”

The devil snarled and plumes of smoke broke through the ground where his talons pierced.

But then he drew back, and took a deep breath, and calmed, smirking. “Well then, I suppose you’ll just have to bring me Duke Hastur instead.”

Gabriel frowned and confusion seeped through his fury. “Hastur? Why would I do that?”

“Because he’ll be there with her.” The devil strolled back to his throne and draped himself across it. He chuckled, then shook his head at the absurdity of it all. “You see, you don’t need to beat Michael. You just need to make her _hurt_.”

* * *

_H_ astur dropped a tin pail in a clear river, then hauled it back by a thin but sturdy rope. Water was heavy. Why did it have to be so heavy?

This was part of his daily internal litany, but it wasn’t as unpleasant as previous ones. There were things to do. He could do them. That was something. Something that might be getting better.

On the way up the hillside, he checked for Queen Anne’s lace in the glade. He uprooted a few for the carrots and kept the flowers to pan-fry, then gathered some plantain leaves and bundled it all in a paisley cloth. It was a long hike, so he had a decent bouquet by the end.

The first four nights in Wyoming, with no one awake to put on a brave face for, Hastur had been as good (or bad) as paralyzed. He’d lain close and nearly motionless against the weak flutter of Michael’s pulse. He couldn’t have left, wouldn’t have, just huddled in his coat with her and waited, afraid that butterfly beat would die in the draft while the light came and went. He hadn’t tried to climb out. What was the point of leaving a grave alone?

Lily, not caring for her master’s pity party, had come and gone as she pleased in the cave pond. She brought back watercress and small fish and the first roots of Queen Anne’s lace, enough that eventually Hastur took the hint and tried to make something they could eat. The limey water was drinkable, but only because immortals could ingest paint thinner and get along fine.

Day five had been the change. The spelunkers had arrived. By then the butterfly heartbeat had stabilized to an assuring answer to Hastur’s own, but Michael hadn’t woken. So as the cave-divers descended, a swarm of maggots rose to meet them like a grotesque wave. The two adventurers were horrified enough that they got the heck out of dodge, and left the lines, which was exactly what Hastur had intended. If they had stayed, they would have been eaten. He hadn’t had the patience to threaten them twice.

So now he had camping equipment and food. He robbed the local stores regularly, but he rather liked wild roots and herbs when they were plenty. He did buy alcohol for a variety of very practical reasons (most of them his nerves), and acquired extra pillows, blankets, and, of course, a hair brush. He paid in fool’s gold, except for the brush, because she wouldn’t have liked to own something stolen.

Halfway up the hill, at the mouth of that cave, Hastur set the pail and bundle down. Next he tended the fire pit. The cave overlooked a national park—one where a certain sulfurous geyser blew its cap in a timely manner about seventeen times a day. Hastur picked up a spade and poker and brushed back the ashes. The park rangers didn’t bother him anymore. Didn’t dare.

The air was good up here. So was the weather, but for when it stormed out of a clear blue sky. 

At last the fire leapt up and Hastur set the kettle on. He glared at the wind until it turned from the cave like it was embarrassed. Couldn’t have smoke getting in.

Down in the parking lot of Yellowstone was the RV. Not long after their immediate danger was passed, he’d gone back for it—a thing easier said than done. The only other routes now were via other water sources—those and the pits of hell. At last he and Lily had set out, making a scene with their return by way of Dryad Lake. A few tow trucks had tried to move the RV since. They’d given up when this caused their engines to spontaneously burst into flame. Now tourists sometimes took selfies with it, which Hastur tolerated. For now.

Hastur watched the kettle to disprove a proverb, and let his own thoughts simmer.

The first time Hastur had fallen in love, he had literally fallen. There had been no solace then, just commiseration. Demons weren’t allowed to know peace. Or relief. Or love, though that didn’t stop them trying. No wonder it had taken him so long to realize this time. How could you recognize love that looked like everything you were supposed to hate?

But he hadn’t said it yet.

The kettle boiled and he returned with it to the cave.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just a fragile truth.

* * *

_S_ omewhere west of Dakota, Michael had started writing things down. Which was good, because Hastur wasn’t ever going to try the art of medicine without a reference. Mortal medicines were somewhat effective on immortals, much the way that mortal alcohol was, but that meant some poison was too. Natural cures tended to mend the supernatural better than things farther removed by technology, but they were more temperamental and they didn’t come with instruction labels.

Making the chamomile by the footpath keep growing out of season kept an effective blood thinner around to treat inflammation. There was also mashed pumpkin for open wounds, willow bark for pain, and plantain leaves for wrappings and salve, to name a few. The last of the lavender was too sparse to touch.

But before bandages, there was brushing and braiding. He was getting rather good at it.

“You know I used to wonder if the caldera would blow before the End,” said Hastur as he worked. “Take half the country with it. Smother the rest.”

“It was on file for Armageddon,” Michael said softly. Most of what she said was soft these days.

She was turning pages in her notes. Her motions were slow, her breathing uneven. Now and then she had to lean back on his hand or otherwise fall forward.

“Sorry about this,” she added, next it happened.

“Never apologize to a demon.”

She tried to smile.

“You going to tell me what happened yet?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking for the third time,” Hastur said, being careful with the brush. “And I will ask a fourth if you don’t. Aren’t you lot all about asking and receiving?”

“We’re not much of a lot anymore.”

“But what happened?”

The smile failed completely. “Does it matter?”

“It was him?”

“Yes.”

“Then it could matter.”

With a sigh, Michael set the book to one side with their supplies. “You remember when he started the insurrection?” she asked. “All that blood on the streets?”

Hastur nodded and kept working, eyes looking at his fingers but not seeing. As a personal rule, he tried not to think of the Fall very much. But streets paved with gold being ironically bathed with golden blood were not easy to forget. It hadn’t even been a war really—how could it be when there’d never been a fight? It had just been a slaughter punctuated by a desperate last stand.

“I was coming out of choir practice,” said Michael. “He’d been after me before, to join his group. I had no idea what for. I found him bullying some other angels into line and he… Well, you know Orthniel was one of the first casualties.”

Hastur nodded, trusted she heard the motion.

“And I… I just saw he had a sword, saw what it did, saw… what happened after. So I made one and… I guess that’s what all of us did. When I tried to fight… I didn’t know what I was doing. He had me pinned in less than a minute.”

Hastur swallowed and set the brush aside, another braid weaving in his fingers. Michael stared at the far side of the cave.

“He told me to join him. He hurt me when I refused. And I just… It never occurred to me to hurt anyone before. I don’t know why, so I used the lightning. And I got up, and I just… somehow, I got lucky and drove him back and down. Even then he tried to drag me with him.” Her shoulder spasmed a little, as if at a memory. Hastur paused to fold one hand around it, then eased out its knots. “I was the last one to see his face before he fell.”

“How d’you get loose?”

“Lightning again.” Michael swallowed hard. “I was furious, and I didn’t even feel the pain, not until later.” She shook her head. “I guess that made me look pretty strong.”

Hastur lay the next braid carefully over her shoulder. “And you, what, lived on the lie?”

“I hoped it was true.”

“Well, it’s over now.”

“No. I think I have to fight him again.”

Hastur bit his tongue, then said, “That’s just the knock on your head. You’ll get over it.”

She smiled weakly. “I don’t think he’s going to give up this game.”

“I am firmly committed to our list, doll. We still have hedonistic obligations, you and I.”

“But I beat him at it once.”

“You really think you can take him, when just calling to arms leaves you like this? You’re fresh out of gravity.”

“I might get lucky again.”

“Get smart,” he muttered.

She shot him a dark look over one shoulder, then cringed and whimpered at the pain this motion caused.

Hastur said, softer, “I’m not saying you _can’t_. I’ll never tell you what you can’t do. But I didn’t get a dukedom from being lucky.”

She bit her lip, then asked, “What did you do?”

Hastur didn’t answer at first. Instead, he passed the last braid over her shoulder and set to tending her scars, sorting through jars of liniment, pounding leaves and blossoms with a stone mortar, laying plasters.

“I told you mine,” she said.

Hastur sighed, then shrugged. At last he said, “I was no one. After the Fall, I was less than that. No wings.” He waved vaguely. “I went looking for trouble.”

“Why?”

“So it wouldn’t come looking for me.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s safer knowing what you’re getting into. I’d find trouble, learn its name, and annoy it. Get some demon riled up enough that they’d challenge me. I’d play dumb. Wait for their mistake.”

“Like what?”

“Always the same one.”

Hastur lay a hand carefully on the space between Michael’s wings.

“They’d take the air, because that’s the advantage. So I’d stay on my feet and be the smaller target. Get them to try to pin me down, even if I’d take a wound for it. Then”—He wrapped his arm around her waist—“get ’em in the soft underbelly when they went in for the kill. They never saw it coming. Not a hundred times.”

“That explains why you’re so good at being annoying,” she teased, leaning back in his hold with a sigh.

“I’m not _good_ at anything,” Hastur muttered into her neck.

Michael dropped her hand back on his knee. “I can think of a few things you’re not bad at.”

“I don’t think you’re quite ready for that yet, sugar.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready.”

“Damn me.”

“No.”

Hastur swallowed a lump in his throat. He untangled their arms, leaned back, and kept working. “I hate rigged games,” he said, “but once you know the real rules, you know how they break.”

“This is all just a game to him.”

“And you think the only way we’d rewrite it is if he died?”

“Maybe it’s time I went looking for trouble, so he stops looking for me. Or you.”

Hastur was quiet for long enough that Michael gave his knee a squeeze, a quiet question. He didn’t answer at first.

“I don’t want to be alone again, Michael,” he said. “Been awhile since I saw any of Ligur’s sigils, and he had plenty of places on that app marked around here. I’ve checked.”

“I know.”

“Look, I don’t want to mince words or make light of it, but I don’t want to take risks if I don't have to. And if I’m going to be with someone, I’d prefer the two of you. Can’t stand anyone else.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Promise me something?”

He realized only after she gasped just how raw he sounded. It didn’t matter. A lot didn’t now. He was more worried that the request seemed to hold her still as stone.

At last she asked, very quietly, “What is it?”

“Don’t leave me behind.”

“As long as it depends on me.”

It was a practical answer. Crazy how an angel who had helped him drink Oxfordshire dry could be so damn practical at the same time. No, “Yes, of course.” No, “I can’t make that promise.” Not even a sentimental, sugar-sweet, “Never.” But then, what was the point of making promises if they were impossible to keep?

“Good enough,” he muttered, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it firmly. Then he turned it over and nosed her wrist, caught her skin in his teeth. When she reached back and caught his hair a tremor rushed down his spine, then pooled into a twisting hunger in his stomach. 

Suddenly gathering flowers was the least his hands could do for her.

“If we’re done with words for now,” he murmured, “how ’bout you let me take care of you? If you’re good”—He let his other arm wrap her up carefully again—“and ready.”

“Bless me…,” she gasped.

“No,” said Hastur, now feeling playful and desperate and something stronger. “I’ll do you one better.”


	11. Bring out the Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hastur does an honest (or slightly less dishonest) day's work, schools an archangel on the "L" word, and makes promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: some brief description of scars.

_T_ wo weeks after, Michael was still resigned to the cave, but she could lie on her back, at least as much as she ever could. One afternoon, she’d pushed away offers of infusions and herbals and asked for a hard drink instead, and that was a very good sign—even if the nightmares still made for stormy nights. They’d drunk themselves asleep and Hastur woke up first as the dawn spilled in.

Hastur curled up against Michael under the shelter of her wings, letting himself sink against her skin and cotton clothes in his half-sleep, calibrating his breathing with her own.

He never used to like mornings.

Or Sundays.

He’d had this closeness with Ligur, but never as long as an entire night and a morning besides. It was a risk. Would have been with any partner he dared let close, even more so with a lover.

How did the bible put it? Lovers “cleaved” to each other. The word itself spoke of a mutual wounding, fitting two things together at a cut joint, binding them up like grafted branches and forcing them to heal together, so that to separate the two again would be to wound a new whole.

Hastur preferred to keep his thoughts in his head where no one could steal them, and so spoke none of this out loud. At length, Michael turned over to kiss him, fitting so carefully into the curves and hollows of him he sighed contentedly despite himself.

They opened their eyes when the birds stopped singing.

Gabriel’s aura was a dog straining at a leash.

“It’s bad news,” said Michael. “Again.”

“So what you’re saying is, I was right about last time,” Hastur murmured into her neck.

“He can’t hide from me when I start looking,” Michael replied, not cruelly or even with mischief. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “And he knows it.”

They helped one another sit up. Michael opened one hand and her sword appeared, though she didn’t lift it. Her hand gripped it like she was considering the effort it would take to try.

“Let me,” said Hastur, reaching. “What do you need to do?”

“Stab it at the entrance. He’ll know not to come in.”

“An angel’s do-not-disturb sign?”

“It’s more common than you’d think.”

Hastur hefted the weapon, first in one hand, then the other. Angel armaments were always better quality than the collections demons scavenged. Something in his grip changed without asking him first. Even after all this time, he remembered how to hold one of these. Too tight, and a blow would destroy your wrist. Too loose, and it would lose you a weapon and possibly your life. You had to get the lines of force right. There was nearly no leverage fighting from the ground—but for what your opponent threw at you.

The fact that he could remember that much in his bones gave Hastur a grim kind of hope. He could almost picture giving Lucifer comeuppance for what he had given them. He just never wanted to be close enough again to try.

Stepping outside, Hastur stabbed the sword upright in the rock ledge in front of their cave, and then he came back to her to wait.

“He was lying last time,” Hastur huffed.

“Yes, dearest, I was wrong,” said Michael. As he sat, she took Hastur’s chin weakly in her hand and pulled him in to kiss her. “You’ll just have to sodomize me later as punishment.”

Hastur shuddered at the prospect.

Soon Gabriel climbed into view. He was thinner than Hastur remembered. And he wore a suit, which seemed wrong immediately, even if the colors were the expected pastels. It looked new. And they were all supposed to be retired.

Taking comfort in the familiar, Hastur thought. Pathetic comfort, but comfort just the same.

When Gabriel spotted the sword, he stopped his approach and dropped to his knees. If he was here to deceive them, he was already off to a bad start, thought Hastur. But then again, Lucifer was never good at gauging friendships. Even if he’d guessed about Hastur and Ligur, it would never have occurred to the devil that they were doing what they did for anything but getting off.

“Michael?” Gabriel called hoarsely.

Michael stepped out of the cave, then took and squeezed Hastur’s hand.

She said, “He has Beelzebub.”

Gabriel looked shocked. _Probably was the next thing he planned to say_ , Hastur thought.

“And, um, I see Hastur’s still with you?” asked Gabriel.

“If you want him, you’ll have to come through me, Gabriel.”

Two for two. Hastur watched the archangel’s expression shift from shock to anger to grief and back again to shock.

“It will be alright,” said Michael, “or it’ll all be over.”

Gabriel leaned on a tree and pulled himself to his feet. He was shaking like a scared fawn. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Something.” Michael pulled up the sword, then let its weight take her a few steps like a cane. Gabriel looked more pained with each step. At last, he climbed the final slope, arms outstretched.

“You can’t face him like this.”

“Well, clearly I can’t wait too long.”

Gabriel looked like he might collapse again with relief. Hastur almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“We’ll figure something out,” said Michael. “Stay until sundown.”

* * *

_H_ astur wasn’t going to let Gabriel bother Michael when she needed rest. He was long overdue with a certain errand. He’d already planned it really, but Gabriel’s arrival made up his mind, and dragging the angel along would only satisfy Hastur’s sense of justice. If Gabriel was going to lie, he could at least help a demon with a day job.

“Is this really necessary?” Gabriel asked.

In these situations, there was, of course, the problem of money. Hastur didn’t use it much, but he respected Michael’s aversion to doing illegal things whenever possible, and this was going to be much more than a hairbrush.

Which is what led to him wearing coveralls all afternoon in the parking lot.

“Hand me that wrench.”

“This wrench?”

“That’ll work.” Hastur slid back under the car on his scooter and made some clanking sounds. It was necessary, after all, to look like he wasn’t using miracles to fix a transmission.

Gabriel sat on his heels. The same distress hung about him as before, but this puzzle was serving as a reluctantly welcome distraction. He said, “So, what have we been doing for the past four hours?”

Hastur pushed himself and the scooter out from under the car and plucked a cigarette from his mouth. “I’m a car repairman. You’re my assistant. I’m repairing. You’re assisting. Mind the jack.”

Beside the car, a woman twisted her keys in one hand and checked her phone in the other. “It is so nice of you to come on such short notice,” she said. “I was sure there’d be no one here for miles.”

“Nah, the park knows me, personal,” said Hastur, feeling no compulsion to explain why.

Gabriel’s phone rang and he stared at it. “We got another one on I-76,” he announced.

Hastur slid back out just a moment to consider this. “Send a tow to bring it here,” he said at last, then slid back under the car and muttered, “About bloody time. I put the caltrops on the road an hour ago…”

A few minutes later, the woman paid and tipped them both. Hastur waved and forced a friendly smile as she pulled out of the National Park’s parking lot. She was too grateful to notice it turn to a grimace.

Honest living. It wasn’t chaotic enough for Hastur’s tastes. He hoped it was nice enough for hers, though.

“You know, money is the root of all evil,” Gabriel pointed out after they’d fixed the next shredded tire. Hastur had lit a fresh cigarette. He was counting bills with quick, professional movements that had seen a hundred thousand currencies.

“Seems more like the fruit. Only the evil seem to have too much of it,” said Hastur. Satisfied, he snapped his fingers and somewhere on the I-76, hazardous road litter vanished without a trace, as did his ad on the billboard nearby. “But best get rid of this quick then.”

With another snap his clothes were instantly more comfortable. He strode towards one of the park’s more high-end gift shops and folded the bills into his inner pocket. You could buy anything in a place designed to make people think they wanted to.

Hastur stopped at the door to stare at the “Open” sign, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He turned around.

Gabriel had followed him. He was back in his suit, and cringing like he was trying not to be over six feet tall. The angel said, “You’re really going to help us, then?”

“We’re going to help ourselves and it will help you, yeah,” said Hastur. “Why don’t you go back and look in on Michael until sundown? I don’t like leaving her alone…”

“You finally trust me?”

“With Michael, yes,” said Hastur. “Don’t know if I can’t turn my back on you without you turning me in. Trust me, I have been paying attention.”

“I am a very honest and loyal and moral person,” Gabriel insisted.

Hastur took the cigarette from his mouth and resisted the urge to turn it into something stronger. “You’re also in love,” he said.

Gabriel’s jaw dropped.

“I’m right?” Hastur added.

“Of course! But how did you…? I mean, that means that you… So you understand—”

“I understand how trustworthy people in love can be, yeah.” Hastur squinted pointedly at him. “Turns out, I know _exactly_ what I can trust them to do. If you take _my_ meaning.”

The sky clouded just enough to cast ominous shadows, and the cigarette end flared on cue for dramatic effect. Gabriel rolled his eyes upward worriedly.

“Just remember,” Hastur went on, and gestured with the cigarette: “Michael agreed to help you, and that’s going to come at a high cost. I’m only helping you because I’m helping her. Not that I want to see Lord Beelzebub miserable, but fighting for only moral reasons is stupid.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“I’m saying that a fight is a fight,” said Hastur. He felt his hand shaking, clenched a fist and shoved it in his pocket, tight enough that Ligur’s ring on it hurt. Damn him if weeks ago he’d ever thought he’d be arguing this with an archangel. “Look, you only fight a fair fight if you can win, or an unfair fight if you can cheat,” he went on. “And if neither is the case, you change the game or you get out. When it comes to love, you only fight for love if losing is worth it as much as winning—because if it’s not, if you lose, what’s lost is either you or them.”

Gabriel puffed himself up against this assertion. “Well, it’s written ‘love conquers all,’” he said.

“All of _what_?” Hastur groaned. “Love’s not a conqueror. Love’s not a fight. If everyone were more loving there wouldn’t be any goddamned fights. That’s the only thing it could mean.”

“I… I wasn’t… I mean… Look, Hastur, if I had a choice…”

“Nah, you’re terrified and you should be,” Hastur grunted. “Y'know what? Save it and come with me.” He pushed open the shop door and winced as the bell went _ding_. “I’m gonna need your advice on something.”

* * *

A minute. He had a minute.

Michael was working on her notes when they got back, drawing and writing by lamplight. Her braids were wound up around her head because he’d finally figured out pins. Her neck was bent forward and was teased with wisps of loose strands. The spaghetti strap shirt that hung off her torso didn’t hide any bandages or scars, but there were fewer bandages now at least.

Ligur hadn’t had time. Might never have it.

But Hastur could take a minute.

And say… what exactly?

Hastur kept his hand shoved in his pocket.

He was here. She knew he was, and they were comfortable not interrupting each other these days. She was rattling half a dozen rosehips in one palm, making a sketch of them, the pencil lead changing color as she willed it. Hastur eyed the rosehips, then the scars, then the bandages again.

 _Why do all the human poets compare lovers to roses and ivory?_ he wondered. Stupid idea. No one wanted to lie next to roses or embrace bone. Maybe it was all supposed to be a metaphor for something, but roses only bloomed when they died, and ivory meant dead elephants.

Besides, you didn’t need a simile to say, “I like lying next to you. I like when the air I breathe is full of the smell of you. I like when the feel of your skin is closer than my clothes.” Wasn’t that enough?

The sword was still up against the wall. Hastur picked it up, and turned and stuck it in the mouth of the cave. She smiled a little.

“You mentioned sodomy,” he said.

“I did, didn’t I?”

Human poets didn’t write about this part much either, about how even the lowliest debauchery could become, for lack of a better word, sacred.

Hastur crossed to the spread out sleeping bags and sat close to watch her work.

He thought, you also never read human poets saying, “I will lie next to you when we’re both geriatric and sweat medical smells and have acid reflux that reminds us of what we had for dinner and have to help each other on and off the toilet. And I will kiss you even then.”

They should be writing things like that, Hastur thought. That would be commitment right there. “I’ll lie next to you until you’re gone, and I’ll lie next to you again when I’m gone.” All that would be, in Hastur’s limited understanding of romance, remarkably romantic if he were mortal. “I have one life. There are nine billion people on this planet. You’re one I want to share that life with.” They could say that. But they didn’t.

Those rock ’n’ roll folks, The Pretenders, had had a fairly decent rendition of what Hastur thought of as love. Forget the walking though. Five hundred miles or otherwise. That’s what the RV was for.

“Michael?” Was that his voice? It sounded small.

“I’m just finishing this,” she said, carefully. She knew not to look at him when he felt broken, but he could feel her tuning in, like she did with the blindfold on. That was enough. Exactly what he needed. “Calms my nerves.”

Hastur cupped his hand under the one holding the rosehips. “Just need a minute. Gabriel can wait that long.”

She went still.

“I know in a way this is just a formality. Hope I already know the answer.”

“Yes.”

He smiled despite himself. Somehow she got him to do that. “Michael, angel of arch?”

“Ex-angel, at least the arch part.”

“Michael, ex-angel of arch?”

“Yes?”

“I was going to ask, before you so rudely interrupted me…”

She’d started to shake with laughter.

“…will you stay with me?”

The laughter went still, but she set down the pencil and pages and then set aside the rosehips, too.

Hastur said, “Look, whatever happens, now or after… I don’t know if I’ll ever follow you into the light. It’s not something I’m ready for, might not ever be. But I would follow you into the dark.”

“And I you,” said Michael. The angel dug something out of her pocket. Hastur was only half-surprised to see the rose gold and jacinth.

He was on both their minds, after all.

“When d’you get that?” Hastur asked.

“Back in Reno,” she said. “Will you wear it in the light?”

Hastur pulled off his gloves and tossed them somewhere. It didn’t matter where. He spread his hands and helplessly smiled.

“I’ll wear your ring if you wear mine."

It wasn’t poetry, but poets never seemed to get it right anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a row without swearing. What is the world coming to?


	12. Will They Fall and not Rise?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets theirs and Michael sings badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: blood, death, supernatural violence, choking, drunkenness, broken glass bottles, death threats, and general violence.

_T_ hey started with the app of course, leaving a review because neither was about to give up on Ligur still being out there.

> _@_ **LiggyLaVidaLoca** _:_
> 
> _Hell: What it sounds like. Bad service. Tacky and outdated. Owner’s a dick. Staff need a union. You’ll find better food in a dumpster can on fire. The floor is literally lava, and not in a fun way._
> 
> _Zero stars._

Next was not a call but a text message. Better than a ram’s horn, in Michael’s opinion, though she put the emoji of a French horn beside it. Uriel saw it just as she pulled the day’s cinnamon rolls from the oven before sunrise. Ariel caught the message coming in from his garden.

> _Lucifer wants his war. Do not engage. This is a rescue._

More practically, there was a set of coordinates:

> 53°30′N 108°0′E

* * *

Few demons have fond memories of hell and most of these are of the early years, when the Fall was so fresh in every mind that any other existence was tame by comparison. It had always been horrible. Modernization had just changed what horrible looked like. The walls were slick, the pipes leaked, and the floor always melted your shoes if you stood too long in any one place. It was not a place made to be pleasant, to the souls interned there or to its workers.

And so it was something of an improvement when Gabriel crashed through the roof.

The floor of Lake Baikal crashed after him. It landed in the ninth circle as a flood, and the water threw the entire chamber into a haze of sulfuric steam that roiled sickeningly in waves of hot and cold as the flood smashed the foot of the devil’s horned throne.

Demons in the galleries and on ledges screamed in fear and clung to posts and railings, fearing it might be an onslaught of holy water. In the hallways, those coming and going were forced to flee or be swept back into the main chamber by the flood.

Even with the threat of holy water disproven, the result was every demon not on a torture rack came down to see what was going on. As the last of the boulders from the ceiling finally settled amid the general ruin, fish and water plants sizzled on the floor of everburning stones. Bright, unfiltered daylight streamed down in a broad pillar as Gabriel dropped a limp Hastur on the hissing stones. The angel put a foot on the demon’s back.

“Stay down, fiend,” he said. Then he looked at the devil’s seat.

The devil had not flinched, only unfolded his leathery wings to divert the avalanche. Now he folded them, unwilling to acknowledge any drama but his own.

He said, “We have _doors_ , Gabriel.”

“I was in a hurry,” said Gabriel. “You have no idea what Michael’s like when she’s mad.”

“I think I do.”

“No. I don’t think even I did.”

“Well then, good boy.” The devil pushed himself off the throne and strode down the steps, inflating himself into a monstrous size as he did so. Then he clapped his hands and the lights went up.

Torchlight. Green and yellow and blue. It threw sickening shades all around the cavern that made even the shadows look smeared with dung. All along the galleries and walkways the demons huddled in shock, watching and waiting. Some shivered in their shoes while still others were crouched gargoyle-like, minds turned inward, still as stone. They hadn’t left their posts mindlessly. They were all armed.

“Now I just need a way to launch my war,” said Lucifer, squatting on his heels. “What do you think, Gabriel, as the archangel’s right-hand warrior? Should I maim Michael’s lover first, or just decorate the threshold of hell with his entrails?”

Hastur drew a deep breath. He held it as he felt his stomach dry heave. It wasn’t on purpose. It was never on purpose. Just as much a reflex as swallowing hard whenever it happened.

Then he said to Gabriel, “Get your damn foot out of my back, you bastard, and I’ll give you a third option,” and coughed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Gabriel quickly.

“And I’ve been trying to tell you, you’re wasting your time,” said Hastur. He glared up at the devil and pretended he wasn’t afraid of him. “You want to ask this meathead what his big strategy was for catching me? I’d like to think I’m not the only one about to puke.”

“Are you trying for the part of court jester, Hastur?” the devil countered.

“Nah. I don’t like jokes.”

“Well, you’ll certainly not make it back into my favor as a duke ever again. You’ve defied me for the last time.”

“Well, this is all about last times, isn’t it?” Hastur countered. He pushed hard on the ground. Gabriel shifted his foot slightly as the demon pushed himself upward, then brought it down harder. Hastur collapsed again and fought an unseemly whimper with cursing.

Gabriel said, “You’re the only demon I know who loves his own misery’s company.”

“Look, I don’t give a shit about a dukedom,” said Hastur. “Michael isn’t coming.”

“And what has you so sure?” asked the devil.

“Because the map she’s got to find me on won’t show a corpse.”

Gabriel looked up (and up) at the devil. “That so?”

“I do forget these things,” the devil confirmed. “A dead demon doesn’t have an aura on any map. Well thought out, Hastur.”

“I don’t have to think anything,” growled Hastur. “And you’re about to have ten million other problems.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I did what you said,” Gabriel added, and shrugged.

There was suddenly, from overhead, the rustling and beating of wings. The noise was like a million peals of thunder.

The hole in the roof had, as a result of being the many-layered stone and silt bed of one of the world’s oldest lakes, natural ridges where the layers had piled and split over time. Lightning fell and scattered like a jagged spider’s nest as a flock of angels made landings by hundreds and thousands on every ledge.

The devil only smiled.

“An audience,” he laughed. “As it should be. Oh, now I can’t wait to get started. Don’t be too confident, Hastur. Michael won’t be able to miss this. I’ll let you live just long enough to see her watch me kill you.”

The devil sauntered back to his throne and pulled out his sword. He resized it with a glance, to fit his more copious form. Then he spun it under one hand and lounged, grinning up at the gathered angels with bloodthirsty eyes. This was what he had wanted. Now he just had to wait for Michael to make an entrance and his war would begin.

* * *

_I_ t was an hour later that the devil started tapping his foot, which made crackling noises on the broken stone. A quarter of an hour later than that, he was tapping his finger. By the ninety-minute mark he was spinning his sword under one hand, then juggling it from one palm to the other. Finally, he stood up and roared:

“Well, where is she?”

No one answered, but there was a desperation to the silence that said everyone really, really wanted someone else to, because the demons knew they were in for pain if no one did.

Which was why the humming caught everyone off guard.

It was coming, not from overhead, but from a narrow passageway, one still dripping with the floods of Lake Baikal. Possibly it had been going on for some time—the instigator definitely had that, “I’ve warmed up with a shanty and about four straight whiskeys” tenure going for them. They actually knew how to sing—some habits can’t be drowned, even by drink—but the drink had made quite the effort, if the slurring was anything to go by.

“ _Blame it all on my roots. I showed up in boots, and ruined your black-tie affair_ …”

As the verse went on, the devil leaned forward. At last, he stepped off the throne and peered down the passageway.

“… _last one to know, last one to show, I was the last one you thought you’d see there_ …” 

There was an on-beat pause and something swirled and swished with a glassy _plink_.

“ _An’ I saw the surprise, an’ the fear in ’is eyes, as I took his glass of champagne_ …”

A hand wearing a ring landed on the rough edge of the passageway. There was another swish and then the voice bellowed from the one attached to it.

“ _I toasted you, said, ‘Darlin’ we may be through, but you’ll never hear me complaaaaaaaain_ ….’”

“What are you doing?” Lucifer asked. By this time, the devil was more than halfway across the floor. Out of eyeshot, Gabriel and Hastur exchanged an unreadable look that seemed only mildly one of concern.

“Don’t interrupt the chorus,” Michael slurred. She pointed with one finger and nearly dropped a gleaming russet bottle of Jim Beam. “Or I’ll have to start all over.” She took another swig. “Now where the fig was I? Right, ‘ _Blammit all on m’roots. I showed up’n boots_ …’”

“Are you… drunk?”

“Ah.” Michael broke off and cracked a smile, then laughed and cracked it wider. “So, a battle of _wits_ wassit gonna be then?”

“What?”

“You’re challenging me”—Michael jerked the bottle back—“to fight you”—again the bottle shot out—“to a battle of wits.”

The bottle upended as Michael chugged down half in one go. The burning, towering bulk of the devil was frozen in disbelief.

Which was, Hastur reflected, rather poetically perfect, or would be if they all survived.

Michael lowered her arm, hiccuped once, then pulled a kerchief out from a pocket that didn’t look like it could fit so much as a shoelace. She leaned back on the stone wall and started wrapping the neck of the empty bottle with it.

“You wanted me t’come here,” she said. “I’m here. Now what?”

“You are drunk.”

“The ’Ccuser o’ the Brothersss, ladies and folks!” Michael declared. “See ’ow good he is at this? Stunning observation, Luey. Abso”—She took a last swig—“fuck-a-lutely splendid.”

The devil snarled. Hot flames licked along his skin and lightning crackled across his wings as every reptilian eye glared. “You’re trying to humiliate me.”

“Don’ need my help on that one, shithead. Now…” Michael tied off the kerchief, which now protected her hand, and smashed the bottle on the wall. The crash of glass echoed down hallways as the singing had. More so than laws of physics should have allowed. Michael turned back around. She was now left holding a dripping bottle stem that ended in jagged, glinting glass.

Which was really something you could only do with sugar glass in movies, Hastur reflected, but he made a small gamble to himself that Lucifer didn’t watch films much. The infernal king had always been much too busy in backrooms or production offices to be on set, or he might have realized how much of a drama queen he really was.

Michael waved the broken bottle to one side of the devil. “A’right. Where’s the arena?”

“This is it,” growled the devil.

“Good. Now where was I? Right…” Michael strode past him to the center of the floor, singing again. “ _I guess I was wrong. I just don’ belong. But then, I’ve been there b’fore_ …”

“You are _not_ going to fight me drunk, Michael.”

Michael stopped and turned around—after a few unsteady attempts. “Pardon?”

“This is the War to End All Wars,” said Lucifer, putting emphasis on his capital letters. “I have unfinished business with you. We decide who’s strongest now.”

“And then what?”

“And then heaven will serve hell forever after.”

“And then what?”

“You will be my personal slave.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean, and _then_ what?”

“Why are you asking me what I mean? You’re the one who can’t answer.” Michael waved the stem of the bottle. “You wanna know ‘and then what’? I’ll show you ‘and then what.’ And then _nothing_. You’re going to fight me or not?”

“Pick up your sword then.”

“You’re not worth it.”

“Pick up your sword or I’ll start killing people.”

“Why? Are you afraid to try and kill me?”

“You are drunk.”

“And I didn’t bring my sword.”

The devil’s jaw dropped.

“And I didn’t need to.”

“You’re going to need more than a bottle of whiskey to beat me, Michael.”

Michael seemed to think seriously about this.

“You’re right,” she huffed, and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. Then she opened her empty hand to the sky. There was a _ping!_ and a new bottle glinted, this one tall and square.

Michael popped out a cork and took a swig.

“What are you—?”

“It’s gin. I think it usua...yushu… It goes with tonic,” said Michael, then took another pull. “But, no, I think it’s best straight.”

For a long minute every eye on the floor of hell and those above it watched the archangel chug the entire bottle of gin, miracle it away—and then summon another from the air.

The devil said, “You can’t beat me like this.”

“Y’right. I think I need something stronger.” Michael staggered to one side, and pushed the bottle into Gabriel’s free hand, then looked down. “Hastur, did we still have rum back in the fridge?”

“White or brown?” Hastur huffed through a wince.

“I hate to drop names, but any Captain Morgan?”

“Half a bottle of Kraken.”

“You spoil me. Perfect.”

The devil jabbed a claw at the air. “You’re making a mockery of me, Michael.”

Michael snapped her fingers for the bottle and turned back around. She lifted the drink towards the new angel gallery as if raising a toast. The contents were so dark they were nearly black.

“Did you all catch that, too?”

The angels laughed as Michael drank down another impossible swig. It was like an ocean was laughing, and the moon besides. The fiery aura around the devil swelled into furious flame at the humiliation.

“Michael, get a sword and fight me, or I will—!”

“Make me? How?”

“Gabriel, why doesn’t your general have a sword?”

“Oh, I have a weapon,” Michael interjected. She set the bottle down beside Hastur and kissed him long and hard. “Thank you, love,” she whispered. Hastur gasped and squeezed her hand with a nod, then watched as she stood up and waved the bottle neck.

She staggered right between—it could have been a coincidence, even—the devil and where Gabriel and Hastur were, and turned to face the tyrant. She primly pulled her knife from the air.

“See?” she said. “Cleaned it up and everything.”

“A knife?”

“It served before to make you whine like a cat. Still,” Michael tossed the knife away. It landed in a puddle with a _plink_ , “you’re right. A bit excessive. Especially for your thin skin.”

The devil roared and charged, swinging his sword like a mace. Michael dodged sloppily so that the blade passed her. The adversary swung a fist as he turned on a heel. The blow hit Michael in the chest, throwing her across the room. She spread her wings at the last minute to catch herself in the air, then dropped to the floor, then to one knee, wincing.

“Regret your mockery yet, Michael?”

She coughed. “Hm… You know, I almost felt that one.”

“Sober up and fight me,” Lucifer demanded.

Michael wiped a trickle of blood from her split lip. Then she looked up, eyes bright, and grinned. “Why don’t we settle this over a drink?” she said.

“I’ll have our battle. And my War.”

“You know, tomorrow, I’ll probably forget I kicked your ass. That’s how unimpressive you are. You are not _worth_ my sobriety.” Michael staggered to her feet. “You’re not worth my effort.”

Again the devil charged, and Michael dodged away, again at a stagger. This time the glass bottle came down, as if purely by accident, and caught several dozen eyes in the nearest wing.

The ground cracked and bent underfoot as the devil staggered with a roar and turned around again. Fire welled up from every seam in the floor, and Gabriel pulled Hastur up so they could both back up to the firmer foundations of the horned throne.

Michael eyed the bottle neck in her hand, which was starting to splinter, and shook it out of the kerchief. It shattered on the floor. She inspected the cloth, then folded it away. Meanwhile, the heat melted the glass.

“Y’know what I learned recently, Lucifer?” she called. “There’s a whole country where a bunch of people with excessive food and semi-decent sightseeing prospects, actually _think_ they’re the top dogs in the world. They never had to work for it. And, you know, they never try. And this bunch of idiots even march their soldiers around the world, insisting to everyone that they’re the greatest.”

“We’ve seen plenty of empires rise and fall, Michael.”

“Yeah, but it’s all been bought these days…” Michael made a gesture with one hand and neatly staggered to one side. Again, conveniently, between the devil and any target besides herself. She coughed again, spotted the bottle of rum, and picked it up for a long pull.

“My point is… my point is, they’re bullies, like you,” she said, tossing the emptied bottle into a puddle where the water was hissing into steam. “Always scared that one of these days, a bigger bully will come along and beat them. They see it in every shadow. But the truth is, no one wants to beat them up. Everyone else—and I mean _everybody_ —They all would like to just get on with their fuckin' lives.”

Again, the devil charged, sword swinging. This time, Michael caught his wrist. Her hand only made it partially around, but she held fast and pushed back. Her feet sank into the soft stone underfoot a little before the tension held.

“You’re missing my point,” she went on, gritting her teeth. “Look, bullies are stupid. These people are stupid. These stupid people keep challenging anyone to a fight who doesn’t look like them or talk like them or love like them or pray like them or vote like them—and all because _they think life is supposed to be a fight_.”

“What’s your point?” asked the devil.

“Just that one of these days, that prophecy of theirs that everyone hates them is going to fulfill itself—”

Michael suddenly dropped her hold and sprang backwards, wings open to hover as the sword crashed uselessly into the ground.

“—because they are getting fucking annoying. Someone is going to have to kick them in the ass eventually—and it’ll be fucking good for them, because maybe then they’ll have to admit they need fucking help standing back up—and to do _that_ , they’ll have to learn to be decent human beings for a change.” She landed again and staggered, but still grinned. “And if we end the world now, who the fuck is going to hand them their ass?”

The devil’s jaw had dropped at the number of F-bombs in Michael’s speech. He shook off the stupor. “I couldn’t care less about America,” he said.

Michael grinned a little. “See? I didn’t even have to say the name. Thing is, I feel sorry for them, but I have hope for them, too. Not for you, though. Now surrender and I’ll be taking my own and we’ll leave.”

Lucifer scoffed. “You’re own?”

Michael made an all encompassing gesture again. “These angels and demons and any of their friends back in the cells. Like Beelzebub. Beelzebub and I freed the lot of them, and then you tried to take them back. That’s not happening. We don’t punch things anymore in this new world, Luey. We do paperwork.”

“We don’t. Now fight me.”

“No.”

“And sober up.”

“Or you’ll what? Do you have any idea what kind of angel I am?”

“I’m done making empty threats,” said the devil, and he turned suddenly to storm to the throne and throw Gabriel to one side. Next he took Hastur up by the collar, turned, and flung the demon down on the floor at his feet. Hastur landed on his back and screamed. The devil pressed a hand around Hastur’s throat until Hastur could only croak, then craned to look up at Michael, who stood suddenly still and serious.

The devil grinned like a cat. “Hear that, Michael? All that _pain_?” He pressed down harder. “That is the only pretty speech that matters here in hell.”

Michael felt frozen. There were at least twenty strides between them. Whatever the devil did or did not do, Michael knew she couldn’t reach him in time.

“This is between us,” she said.

“Is it? But you don’t want to fight? What if I give you no choice? ‘ _This_ ’ could be a pile of corpses between us, how about that? I’ll start with your lover. I move on to your bestie over there. And then we start calling on volunteers.”

“You don’t want me angry…”

“Oh, I do. I want you _furious_ , Michael. I want you wrecked. I want you choking on despair. Because I _do_ know what kind of angel you are, Michael. You are the one who was plucked from the fire by the hand of G-d Herself, the one destined to fight me. You’re Her tool. Her counterpoint to my challenge.”

“And there you go, making it all about you,” said Michael.

“You can’t stop thinking about it either. I know you don’t. And you won’t. Not until our fight is over. I know about your nightmares, Michael. I have them too, and I enjoy every minute of them.”

Michael clenched her hands into fists and spread her wings. There was red in her eyes now, in all of her eyes. It was a fire-red only ever seen in hell.

The Accuser of the Brethren laughed out loud. “You want everyone to think you’re an angel of mercy? Why? Because you felt so bad about fighting your own that G-d gave you wings that could heal? Because you took up a _hobby_ after the Fall? You will always be a beast of war. I shouldn’t be surprised by your choice in lovers. You were almost a demon yourself. Not born for clean robes and gentle prayers. You’re an angel of _vengeance_.”

“And I don’t have my sword.”

“You’d better get one, or Hastur here is going to die.”

“I said, I. Don’t. Have. My. Sword.”

The devil’s leer twisted and he opened his mouth for another tirade, but there was a sudden, sickening, slicing squelch of a noise, and his face went suddenly confused, then shocked, then slack.

Hastur shoved upward and gave a kick for good measure. The devil staggered back, a bloodied weapon between the two of them, the blood-dark blade of a double-edged sword. The devil clutched at his stomach as he fell backward, silent, then suddenly he choked a bloody scream. 

“Michael?” Hastur gasped.

She was already beside him. Taking the sword, with a deft spin she turned the weapon on its end and stabbed again, this time straight into the devil’s neck. She glared down at him.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, “where I got friends.”

“Bitch,” Lucifer gurgled in rage.

Michael smiled demurely. “Yeah.”

Then his eyes went blank as paper. Michael glared until their fire went out. Then she staggered but threw an arm across Hastur’s shoulders. He clutched her to him and through their pain they were vaguely aware of a roaring like an ocean, the sound of millions of shouts of joy, relief, and victory from around and overhead.

Michael never looked away from the corpse. She had to be sure, didn’t she? He was a deceiver and a liar. She patted Hastur’s shoulder and then, with another spin of the sword in her hand, brought it down again, this time slicing off his head for good measure.

There was a crackling, withering sound as the corpse shrank into bone and ash. Satisfied, Michael staggered backward and landed sprawled out on the dais of the throne. Hastur sank to his knees beside her. Michael looked up, snapped her fingers, and a fork of lightning shot straight down through the lakebed skylight and severed the throne in two. It cracked, then fell apart, a pile of ruin.

“Nice one.”

“Thanks.” Michael squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth to miracle herself sober. She whimpered as all the worst pain came back at once.

Hastur squeezed her hand, then miracled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to him to medicate his throat, still catching his own breath. “Is this alright?” he asked.

“Yeah. More than alright.” Michael’s eyes landed on Gabriel, who was dragging himself out of a puddle. “Go get, Bee, Gabe. No one’s stopping you.”

The tears in Gabriel’s eyes did slow him down, but only a little.

Michael curled up on the stones. “It’s over?”

“Yeah.” Hastur passed her the bottle. She waved it away.

“I’ll be okay. Want to be sober enough to remember.” She stared at the corpse. “What do you want to do now, Hastur, _former_ Duke of Hell?”

“Well, Michael, ex-angel of arch…” Hastur stopped to cough and wrung his own throat. “While I’m still sober enough to say so, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say… so…”

“Are you sure you’re sober?”

I’m sober enough.” Hastur fumbled for her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “I fucking love you.”

“Is that why I’m wearing your ring?”

“It’s important to specify. For all types.”

Michael was aware she was smiling without restraint now. “Well,” she said, “that’s a relief. Because I fucking love you, too, and it would be mildly disappointing if one of us hadn’t been enjoying themself as much as I thought—”

Hastur’s kiss cut her off and they fell back together in a tangle, then winced and groaned, then laughed anyway.

“Damn it all to hell,” Hastur muttered.

“Already here.” Michael stared up at the ceiling. The other angels had broken rank and were now mingling among the demons, helping everyone back on their feet who needed it. Some were already making their way off together.

Something went _bzzzzzzz_ incongruously

Michael dug the smartphone out of her pocket. “How the heck are we getting a signal down here?”

“And who the heck isn’t here?” complained Hastur.

The notification was from the travel app. “Our review got a comment…” Michael frowned and tapped it open.

It read:

> **LiggyLaVi/daLoca** _liked your review of Hell._
> 
> **LiggyLaVidaLoca** _says: Better skip it then. Heading to Wall Street to clean some clocks. See you at Ellis Island. (P.S. BYOB.)_ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 

Hastur gaped over Michael’s shoulder, still breathing roughly. “That… that… bastard!” he shouted, so loud it reached the gallery. Michael looked back at him and saw him openly in tears. “Bastard!” he said again. “He owes us at least a hundred drinks for skipping this one.”

Michael couldn’t speak. Instead she started to shake and, not quite of her own volition, shouted for joy through her own wash of tears. She twisted around, winced, then rallied, threw up her wings and kissed Hastur again. At last she said, “I’ll drive.”

“I could drive.”

“I’ll drive because it is my firm intention, Hastur, to have you six ways from Sunday before we leave, and about seven ways with both of you after we get there, and I promise, on my word as… Well, I promise you will not be able to drive.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that…”

“Are you two, okay?” asked Dagon, limping up with Uriel and Sandalphon. She was crying and didn’t care.

“Sure,” said Michael. “But we’re leaving. Look after Bee and Gabe, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Sandalphon. “You two can do whatever you like.”

“Ah, stop gushing,” said Hastur. “Just make sure everyone leaves us to ourselves for a few weeks. Or months. And”—He helped Michael up off the the floor—“burn that corpse. He’s not allowed to be dramatic anymore.”

Uriel nodded towards the pile of stones and, Michael realized, the multiplicity demon who had been shivering behind the throne for the past hour. “What about that one?” Uriel asked.

Eric squeaked and pulled at his horns in terror.

“He’ll live,” said Michael. “And if he can’t live without paperwork, leave him in charge here. I don’t want to rob him of his happiness.”

“That makes exactly one of uszzz” buzzed a faint but unmistakably authoritative voice.

“Bee!” Michael limped over to carefully take the prince of hell by the hand. They were, at present, being carried on Gabriel’s arm. “How are—? No, stupid question. Let me help with that.” She spread her wings again.

Hastur huffed. “I guess I’ll tolerate a few minutes.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes at him. “Remember who wrote you your pink slip, Hastur. And the rest of you, what did I tell you about proper handling of paperwork? Monkeys are better trained than to throw out…” They winced. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, Bee,” said Gabriel. “You’re retired.”

“I’m still a demon. _Eric_!”

Eric hurried over. Beelzebub snapped and a pillar of fire sent him to cinders. Another Eric immediately sidled into his place. Beelzebub raised a hand again but caught Gabriel looking at them with a pleading look.

“Oh, alright,” they groaned. “I guess we're not doing things this way anymore. Count yourselves lucky, Eric. But I don’t want to hear a nip of trouble from you again.”

“Thank you, your disgrace!”

“Don’t make me make you regret it—nicely.”

Michael tucked away her wings and Beelzebub rolled out their shoulders. “Well, that’s better. Nice to know our little corporate endeavor worked out after all.”

“Sorry to be so long in coming.”

“Oh, you had other things to attend to, we all did,” said Beelzebub. They gave Hastur a knowing look and their best demonic grin. “Still do, I would think.”

“No one’s business but our own,” said Hastur. “But by the by, was there a pink slip on hand for Ligur?”

Beelzebub looked confused, then realized the point. “Dagon?”

Dagon nodded and clapped once. A pink slip appeared in the air, hovering between her hands as it creased itself and slipped into an envelope. She passed it to him.

“Tell him not to be a stranger.”

“You can put me down, Gabriel.”

The archangel obliged gently and the lord of hell tugged his tie to keep him down so they could kiss him, gnawing his lower lip affectionately before pulling away.

“I think this merits a third honeymoon, don’t you, Mr. Beelzzzebub?”

“You know I like how you think.”

“There are a few other things I know you’ll like.”

Michael smiled a little, then sighed with relief. “Take care.”

Gabriel saluted.

Together, Hastur and Michael staggered to the nearest pond and Lily poked her head out of the water as Michael recovered her knife. The familiar rolled her eyes one way, then the other, warily considering the state of the shore and the ceiling before looking with general disapproval at the pair.

“Good girl, Lily,” said Hastur. “Back to America.”

The bullfrog nodded and dove under the water. Michael and Hastur followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's got some ideas or any tips on writing a bar fight, I'd be happy to take contributions. Thanks for sticking around this long.
> 
> I had Kracken once. _Once._ Because I'm a mere mortal. For perspective, a typical rum is about 40 proof. Kracken is around 95, which is only 1% more than the average gin. If you're a rum fan, I strongly _do not_ recommend drinking either straight if you're not immortal.


	13. Epilogue – The Stork, the Swallow, and the Crane (or, A Honeymoon, and a Marriage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which is a long-awaited reunion, RV renovations, relaxation, reconciliations, and the tying (and retying) up of loose ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw/cw** : Mention of scarring, injuries, wounds, fear of abandonment, recreational alcohol and drug use (please, fellow mortals, for the love of Someone never ever _ever_ combine drugs and alcohol the way these crazy immortals do.)
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Other Notes** :  
> This one has a bit more ::ahem:: goings on than the other chapters, though I’m still vague on the details because (a) my demi-grey self prefers to focus on _feelings_ and (b) I figure it’s better for everyone’s imagination that way. I guarantee there will be more feels here than even I know what to deal with by the end, but I guess I get self-conscious. (I still have no idea if this counts as smut. 😅)  
> As always, if I’ve missed a tag or something is off, please, please, _please_ let me know so I can fix it.
> 
> * * *

_I_ t was a sunny autumn day and the waves were wrinkled like old glass when a silver ring tapped musically on the rail of the Ellis Island Bridge. The chime sang along with a thunder-deep voice that murmured an old walking song.

There had been petitions to open this bridge to the public, the most recent in 1995. The standing bridge had been deemed “inadequate” however—except for trucks bearing shipments from Liberty State Park to the facilities like the restaurant and the giftshop. It was possible this had something to do with a financial definition of “inadequate” rather than an architectural one.

Nevertheless, a demon named Ligur had walked said bridge quite adequately on foot, architecturally speaking. At the halfway point, he decided to add loitering to his civil sins and take in the view of the bay.

Ligur knew who he was, what he liked, and what he loved. It was his not-so-humble opinion that anyone who didn’t like any part of that could stay out of his way. It was a big wide world, after all.

Ligur would readily say he loved the United States of America, and not just because it was a contrary opinion. Land of the free? Home of the brave? One nation hidden somewhere under all that bullshit? He absolutely _loved_ it.

It had all been propaganda at first, of course. But the fairy tale of a place too good to be true was exported for so long after, that it ended up being imported back again. Like kudzu relentlessly conquering or tumbleweed piling and spilling stubborn seeds, hope was an invasive species. It was desperate and adaptive and persistent—and it was all but impossible to kill.

The fairy tale still wasn’t _true_ , of course. But it could be, because assuming the world didn’t try to end again anytime soon, America was a country slowly falling in love with its own lie.

Ligur could relate to that. It had happened to him, after all, and he never regretted it.

As he tapped a toe back on the pavement, Ligur shut his eyes and breathed in the warm sunlight. In his retirement, the demon wore flannel and sturdy dungarees. Work boots, too, the kind you could walk a thousand of miles in before they even creaked. 

And he had walked a thousand miles. Two, actually. 

While playing dead to make sure he stayed alive, Ligur had gone for a long stroll from the West Coast, sometimes hitchhiking more lonely roads. A demon could meet a lot of interesting people that way and now that he was retired he could enjoy their company. In this fashion, Ligur had frequented protests from Seattle to New York. He’d stopped to lend a hand at farms in between. And for the lark of satire he’d put up pirate flags at Rushmore.

And those were just the highlights. He’d been a monster in the dark, too, when the impulse took him, especially where the wrong kind of liars lived.

He’d thought of Michael and Hastur all the while, diligently scratching sigils at each stop while murmuring “Find me soon” like an incantation. But he knew they needed time. Hastur especially. Both demons knew the terror of a soft underbelly exposed. The devil had made sure of that. But while Michael could be hard as nails to an enemy, they were soft as down to a lover. In a way, the archangel was as much a rebel as Hastur and Ligur were.

A moment later the smell on the wind shifted again. By now Ligur could hear a motor approaching. From the corner of his eye he spotted the sparkling pink highlights of a renovated RV as it parked. Just to be obnoxious, he whistled his tune idly and pretended not to notice. Still, his insides were sparking off like the fourth of July. There were still things he wanted to do, here and there. Especially under the stars with the wild all around him. And none of them were done alone.

A car door slammed.

It was Hastur. Ligur knew from the limping step, though it was lighter now. Ligur turned just in time to be pushed up against the rail. He chuckled a little as their familiars bumped noses on top of their heads—Ziggy the chameleon and Lily were old pals—and then he couldn’t laugh anymore because his mouth was quite busy with something else.

Hastur pried himself away first. “You damned, dirty cocktease,” he said.

Ligur grinned, and an old red star’s light danced in his eyes. “Took you long enough,” he murmured, sliding his hands gently under his lover’s coat. Cotton. That was different. Different, but good. Ligur’s grin melted into a smile. To think, Hastur had let himself be soft again. “You bring the beer, Hast?”

“Better.”

“You old troublemaker.” Michael insinuated herself between them. She swung a knee over Ligur’s hip, and kissed him until he broke away breathless.

Ligur snaked one arm around her waist and held her close. Michael’s wings caught all the sunlight dancing on the tide as he took in her new wardrobe appreciatively. A fire in his stomach was spreading quickly through his veins. Bless it, it had been a long time.

“Miss me, beautiful?” he asked.

“You missed the end of the world.”

“How was it?”

“Someone killed the devil.”

“Who?”

“We did—the bastard,” said Hastur, and kissed him again over her shoulder. “You had us worried sick.”

Ligur caught sight of Hastur’s left hand. He flashed his teeth in a knowing grin. “Seems to have been worth it.”

“Damn straight.”

“Or whatever.”

For a long moment they stood with their arms around each other, as close as standing allowed.

“Good work with Wall Street,” said Hastur at last. “Replacing the bull with a live one—complete with the shit.”

“Glad someone got the joke.” Ligur patted a curious Lily. “Haven’t met a bastard with your sense of humor in over two thousand miles.”

“You miss us?”

“Yeah, but I thought of you. Both of you. Sometimes at the same time.” Ligur laughed a deep, warm laugh and swung an arm carefully around each of their shoulders. They walked back to the road.

“I want to know everything you thought about,” said Michael. “Don’t worry about the RV. I’ve just renovated.”

“Oh?”

“Lots of headroom. Bed’s downstairs by the kitchen—got a hot tub on the roof now.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“I specialize in the impossible.”

Hastur shoved his hands into his pockets and went along quietly in thought.

Ligur was asking, “What d’you two think about making a slow road down to New Orleans? I know a place that makes a mean gator-burger.”

“Does it taste like chicken?” asked Michael.

“It tastes like gator,” Ligur promised. “On the way we can stop in Arlington, VA. Got a Faustian arrangement to check on there.”

“We’re retired, Ligur,” said Hastur.

“It’s for the entertainment value.”

“Well, that’s alright then.”

* * *

_V_ irginia had an entire city of lawyers devoted to traffic court who had seemed just a bit too comfortable to leave alone, so the reunited angel and demons took a day blowing tires on cop cars before finding a field to camp in.

It was long-sleeve weather so Hastur had been leaving off the mud, especially now that he had clothes that didn’t rub him the wrong way. While Ligur took a shower, Hastur stood at the grill, seeing to a hickory plank and a large fillet of salmon. Between lifting the grill’s hood to check its progress, he watched the grain sway and hummed a tune with a problematic second verse, trying to see if he could rework the lines in his head.

Michael’d thrown on a long pullover but still wore shorts that nearly disappeared at its hem. She was up on the roof of the RV. She’d rolled back the top of it and filled the hot tub’s water with a benign miracle that wouldn’t trouble her companions. She was fussing with the plumbing or something now. Hastur could feel the shelter of her wings over the entire site. He kept forgetting what he was doing; even now it startled him, the sudden nothing where the evicted pain had been.

He glanced back and saw her standing over the water, stirring it up with something or another from her stores of ancient medicines.

 _Up to something_ , he thought. He wondered, but trusted.

Eventually, Michael swung herself down by the RV’s outside ladder, dropping the last few feet to the ground.

“What do you know,” she said.

Hastur glanced back from the grill. “What _do_ I know?” he asked.

She tucked herself under his arm. “It’s Thursday.”

Hastur felt his stomach drop at the realization.

“Is it alright?”

“Yeah… just…”

“What's wrong?”

“Six months,” Hastur murmured. “Feels like forever.”

Michael drew a deep breath and thought about this. “After you,” she said quietly.

“You sure?’

“He was yours first.”

Hastur set the grill tongs on their hook and lowered the hood again. Michael rested her arms on his and he carefully leaned into them. Their rings clicked against one another. Hastur said, “I’m yours, too, Michael. You’re the only lover I’ve had in the light.”

“And you still have me, light or no.”

“What were you doing up there with the water?”

“Something.”

“Something?”

“I do things.”

Hastur sighed but smiled at her mischief, still working the grill and thinking while she hummed contentedly beside him.

Contrary to what some mortals thought, Heaven and Hell didn’t harbor much resentment towards polyamory. In most holy books it was the most unremarkable part of relationships. The true litmus test for virtue was in things like loyalty, charity, and temperance—or contrarily, betrayal, greed, and strife. And of course things were different with demons, and with angels. They had to be. No giving and being given. No property rights or rules of succession. It was “always,” and "forever," and those words were more than mere poetry.

Even so, Hastur had never before considered what he _personally_ thought of it. That first time with Michael, Ligur had never quite left him, even with Hastur certain his demon lover was dead. He hadn’t been letting Ligur _go_. He’d been taking Michael _in_. Was that how it worked when love broke your heart into more than two pieces? Were they all the same size? Did they stitch back together without gaps in between, two joining just right, and three makes one?

Hearts were certainly frightened, fragile vessels when wounded. Hastur had been jealous in his emptiness when he thought Ligur was gone. Now he felt greedy instead, like he might never be full. He knew what he wanted, but uncertainty wormed into his chest anyway, perhaps because it too often made a home there.

He realized the humming had stopped. “Is it alright?” Michael asked again.

“I’ll let you know when I know.”

“Do.” She craned her neck and kissed his cheek.

* * *

_A_ fter supper, Ligur and Hastur set Lily with Ziggy in their new terrarium and Michael made a point of stalling over the dishes, insisting when Ligur teased her for this unusual domesticity that he go up and soak in the hot tub to ease his weary bones, then she nudged Hastur into the shower and strolled back to the sink.

 _She knows me_ , Hastur thought. _In so short a time, too_.

The shower stall was a narrow but sheltering space, all curved corners and soft light. Hastur’s ritual was still a ritual, but the litany had changed. It wasn’t futility and masochism. It was preparation, and self-care. He still managed to scrub his way through a bar of soap and nearly ripped the washcloth in the process, but his sores bled less these days.

Finally he stared at his ring amid the suds and remembered Ligur still hadn’t given Michael one. Not a vow either at that. That was on Hastur, wasn’t it? Or at least half on him, half on the first End-of-the-World-that-Wasn’t.

He turned off the water and watched the pink swirl vanish down the drain. He tried to find better words for his thoughts. The test wasn’t, he decided, whether you could mend the vessel. The test was, would it hold water?

At last, Hastur hung the ratty washcloth over the spout and groped past the curtain for a long terrycloth robe. It hung by the one Michael had acquired that bore a stark resemblance to the one at a certain hotel. 

When he came dripping into the kitchen, Michael kissed him as if to banish all doubt. It was probably the nearest Hastur had ever come to an exorcism of something that wasn’t him.

“Warming up, are we?” he whispered.

“It’s a cold night. Still…” Michael drew back, smiled, and handed him a six-pack of hard cider. “Take your time.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll turn down the bed.”

It was warm inside, but Hastur shivered anyway.

* * *

_O_ ver the small lounging deck, the moon stared down like a blind eye. Ligur already had abandoned his clothes to lounge against the jets of the hot tub up to his shoulders. He was never one to be silent about his pleasure. Now his deep voice hummed in small laughs and rolling sighs. Hastur could feel them in his own throat, and heat pooled in his stomach.

Hastur held his breath.

 _The last time we were together before this_ , he thought, _was right before you died in front of me_ . And suddenly he couldn’t move. He remembered the shock, then the fear and the anger, and all the madness after—trying to salvage something, _anything_ , at the very least revenge. All for nothing.

But now he was here. They were here.

Ligur still didn’t open his eyes. “That you, Hastur, my lovely?”

“Yeah.”

“You took your time.”

“Guess so,” Hastur managed.

“Where’s our Michael?”

“Still cleaning up.”

Ligur’s smile stretched slowly and he didn’t open his eyes. “Course she is. You coming in?”

“Not yet.” Haster set down the cans and carefully took a seat on the tub’s opposite edge. “Just… enjoying the view.”

Ligur gestured in shameless welcome. “Here for the taking.”

Hastur didn’t want to think of what holy water did to demons, so he let his fingers play in the harmless current. The water swirled and steamed, catching flecks of moonlight.

He said, “You once said it’d be a crazy world if demons trusted one another.”

“Did I lie?”

“Not much. Just…” Hastur swallowed hard. “It’s still hard to believe you’re here after…”

 _After I watched you die_.

Ligur opened his eyes. “Is something in your eye, lovely?”

“Yeah.” Hastur swallowed hard. “That’s it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed again. “Damn me,” he whispered.

“We don’t do that anymore, remember?”

Hastur looked up in surprise and Ligur laughed softly as if in apology. His laughter was always soft or else he winced. The worst of Ligur’s wounds had always been the ones no one could see. Hastur still remembered the impact on the brimstone lake. There had been rocks. Sharp ones. And everyone knew ribs never set right, even with all Abaddon’s best efforts. Cold never let you forget, Ligur had said once. But if Ligur’s rolling, thunder-soft voice was a weakness, it was Hastur’s weakness, too.

More seriously, Ligur said, “I am here, Hastur.”

Hastur nodded once.

“Are you mad at me?”

Hastur shook his head. “No,” he said. “Smart thing, lying low.”

He realized he meant it. While Hastur’s tactic had always been to hide in the dark, Ligur had survived by borrowing the habits of his familiar, who was a chameleon. Mortals and immortals alike took his stoic bearing not as scar-stiff pain but as surety, and he let them. The devil had known, of course. He’d known all their weaknesses. But outside of Hastur, he’d been the only one. A homecoming too soon would have been lethal all over again.

For a while the two demons sat and the air clutched uselessly at the heated currents stirring the tub. At last, Ligur flashed a bright grin. “Coming in yet?”

“Hard to say.” Hastur carefully shrugged. Remembering, he passed over a can of hard cider and cracked open one for himself. He pulled a rolled stub from the pocket of the robe, lit it on his thumb and diligently worked to finish it off, the can dangling from one hand. “Might be. In just a minute.”

“Sorry I took so much longer than that,” said Ligur. “But I know you.”

Hastur sighed. “I guess you do.” He laughed warily, let the buzz of alcohol dance in his head as his back slowly unknotted. Forget that horrible intermission. Maybe he could manage this. They could. They always had, hadn’t they? Even before alcohol had come along to help.

He tried saying, “Our Michael…,” and that felt right, “…she’s got some ideas.”

“So do I, but we don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with.”

They must have talked, too. Hastur stalled with a sip of cider. It was carbonated, which he wasn’t sure he liked, but it tasted of sweet apples like the ones in New England, and that brought back memories. A few thousand years ago, apples had all been sour and woody. Then someone started grafting branches, and sowing seeds…

“I appreciate it,” he said out loud.

“But?”

“But?”

“You appreciate it, _but?_ ” Ligur grinned.

“It’s…” Hastur stalled again, then said, “Guess I don’t know what I’m comfortable with. Haven’t been comfortable that long.”

“Fair. Simple’s best—to start.” Ligur downed most of his can and set it down with a blissful sigh. “So how long did it take you to fall in love with our Michael?”

“Not sure,” Hastur admitted. “Took plenty of time to realize it, but”—He tried thinking back—“Maybe a minute.”

Ligur laughed soft and low. “Yeah.” He finished the cider. “Funny how being six thousand years old makes that kind of thing easier.”

“And harder.”

“And harder in other ways. You coming in, lovely?”

Hastur shivered, and not from the cold. Ligur wasn’t even touching him. Just sitting there sure as a king on his throne. Crisscrossed with scars like hashtags and asterisks, but warm and open and offering. Maybe it was silly to feel embarrassed now, but after six thousand years and six months, Hastur did.

“Dang, there are so many stars out here,” he muttered loudly.

“Bright.”

“Yeah.” Hastur crushed out the last bit of the stub on the tub’s porcelain edge, then finished the cider. He opened another can, wishing he’d brought something stronger.

Ligur gestured just a little. The wind caught the pines and coasted across the amber fields, then doubled back, carrying dark clouds. “Well, will you look at that?” he said. This time his eyes were open and their darkness met Hastur’s. “We’re losing the light.”

Hastur felt the last knots leave his shoulders as Ligur’s shape fell into shadow. The red spark in his eyes was still bright. It always was.

“Damn, you’re really here,” Hastur whispered.

“Come on in, Hastur. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Hastur waited until the sky was storm-black. The wind stilled and the frost kept its distance. In the fields a choir of autumn insects creaked and hummed. Hastur squinted at his hands. Just shadows against another shadow. With care, he tugged loose his belt and dropped his robe on the deck. The wind whispered across his skin and scars and for a moment he just breathed in the tickling cold at his back.

“Simple, huh?” he asked.

“To start.”

Hastur swallowed and slipped into the water. The humid air caught in his mouth and tightened his throat. There was a brief sting as every sore burned, but then the warmth set in, and whatever minerals or herbs Michael had mixed seeped in as well. The same sores welcomed the gentle drift. Hastur sighed with relief. Between this, the alcohol, and his medicine, it was as good as angel wings.

“Nice?” he heard Ligur ask. “Michael always has good ideas.”

“Angel,” Hastur pointed out and absently made a familiar gesture.

“Ought to thank her properly later for that.”

Hastur held his breath and ducked under the water once, letting himself drift weightless for just a moment before half standing back up to float on the soft current. He pushed forward at a swim until he felt Ligur’s short, rough fingers brush his legs. A second later that strong hold gently pushed him apart and anchored him in a seat on the other demon’s lap. Hastur sighed at the familiar pressure between his legs, but for a moment he just let his head rest on Ligur’s shoulder.

“Damn, it’s been too long.”

“It has,” Ligur agreed. His voice rumbled warm as the water. “But, funny thing…”

“Mm?”

“I got so used to having you after nightfall, you know. There were sunsets… I’d fall asleep out there and dream of you.”

Hastur shivered again. “You were always careful with me,” he whispered.

“Gotta be careful with my treasures.” Ligur freed one hand to wrap the arm around Hastur’s waist. Hastur had the longer torso, so Ligur busied himself immediately nosing carefully between scars to plant kisses in their minefield. “Especially irreplaceable”—He groaned and bucked his hips—“pieces of art.” He bucked again.

Hastur’s sighs turned to moans as Ligur ran his tongue over the sensitive skin of his ribs, now and then nipping at the skin to make him gasp. All the while he canted his hips just so again and again, holding Hastur steady with one hand around his waist while he let the other massage his thigh and… Hastur shuddered and—bless it—that was good. The cider was buzzing in his ears now, but he was awake and aware. If he was careful too, he could ride this out to the end before the pain returned, though he might not last long at this rate for other reasons.

Ligur clenched one hand under Hastur’s leg and somewhere out of the blue and pink haze in his brain, Hastur heard him say, “You still with me, lovely?”

“Yeah,” Hastur gasped. “Always… can’t…” 

“It’s alright. You and me, we know this dance. Kiss me already.”

Hastur let his jaw fall slack as Ligur pushed his tongue into his mouth. Ligur swiped his tongue against the inside of Hastur’s teeth and let one hand, then the other, drift carefully past the wounds on Hastur’s back before settling on his hips again. Hastur’s legs went all but slack with the sensation. They could be as hard as they wanted at kissing, and the taste made all the rest of Hastur open up with the good kind of ache that just wanted to be filled. Soon they were lost in a riveting conversation of hands and mouths and moans. Ligur was right. They'd had this dance before.

And dammit or bless it, it had been too long.

Even after months apart, Ligur still knew his lover’s limits. “Easy now,” he whispered a few moments later. Hastur could manage no reply but a whimper, so Ligur gently turned him in the water so Hastur could drop his head sideways onto Ligur’s shoulder again. “We can take a break if you want.”

Hastur shook his head, swallowed hard. He tried to remember words as Ligur caught his hand in his. At last he managed, “You’re too good to be a demon.”

“Learned a few things from an angel,” Ligur replied, kissing his ring. “Taught a few things, too.”

Hastur felt a sudden thirst and came down feeling oddly ashamed at himself. _So soon?_ he thought. Was it okay to want _that_ so soon?

“Tell me what you want,” Ligur said, feeling the tension in his grip. “Nothing’s too good or wicked for you.”

Hastur stared up at the dark sky and could somehow see stars. “Please…”

“Please? That’s a new one.” But it was a gentle tease. Hastur felt Ligur’s grin as the other demon kissed his neck.

“Ligur,” he choked. “About what… what I’m comfortable with…”

“Don’t think she’s not listening, Hast.”

Hastur pushed back against him and moaned at the thought. “I don’t want you to think that it’s not enough that…”

“It doesn’t have to be enough if it can be better.”

“Gonna need a miracle if you start talking like that.”

Ligur chuckled again and nipped at his ear. “I know where we might find one.”

He eased Hastur a little off his lap. The sensation of the water moving around them was still soothing and Hastur let himself drift in a haze for a moment, though he was shivering a little and could see puffs of white in the shadows ahead of him now. The cold was growing claws and threatening the warmth around them.

“Come on then,” said Ligur. “I think she’s put out the lights by now.”

* * *

“ _H_ ey, beautiful?” Ligur called at the bottom of the ladder. He grabbed a towel from a hook by the shower as Hastur tied up his robe.

Michael was naked in bed behind closed curtains with her own cider by the time Hastur shut the ceiling trapdoor. He heard her set the can down.

“Plenty of room here,” she said. “Come on you two, get warm.”

Hastur tossed the robe on the table, then crawled shivering into bed. Michael yelped, then laughed at his cold hands, then held them in her own to warm them. It was warm, and far more comfortable than a camp bed by rights should have been, but Hastur suspected a few subtle miracles were involved. 

“Hospital corners, I feel special,” said Ligur as they slid down between the sheets.

“You are, you know,” said Michael, kissing him. “How was the medicine?”

“Just what the doctor ordered.” There was another kiss. “And the water was too.”

“I’ve stirred up a few things in my time.”

Eventually, they settled down against the pillows, her head on Ligur’s arm and Hastur’s on her chest.

“Now I really feel spoiled,” Michael said. 

“Oh?” asked Ligur.

Michael kissed Hastur first. Her lips were soft and cool and tasted like cider. Hastur’s hips twitched and she dropped her other hand between his legs in encouragement.

“Already, Hast?” Ligur laughed.

“Call it a miracle of my own.”

More seriously, Michael asked, “Do you want anything else, Hastur? I’ve got a few blindfolds under the pillow. I can use my wings if you like.”

Her hands on him were so gentle. Hastur knew she must be longing for Ligur like he was, but felt her smile into their next kiss. No, he reminded himself, she was longing for both of them, had even said so. Hastur pushed against her carefully and threaded his fingers into her hair, and Ligur sat up and held her from behind.

“Nah, the dark’s good,” Hastur said. Not that he didn’t want to see her, he thought, but suddenly he felt one greedy, gluttonous demon blushing to his crown.

“Is this alright?” asked Michael.

“Yeah. It’s good too.”

Ligur kissed the back of her neck. “That so, Hast?”

Michael sighed blissfully as Ligur ran his knuckles along her curves, then she pulled Hastur back towards her. She swung one leg, then the other up over his hips. Hastur shuddered as she tugged him in close.

“I’ve a sneaking suspicion,” said Ligur, “that our angel is not interested in sleep.”

“She’s not that kind of angel,” said Hastur.

“Clever, clever demon.” Michael rolled her hips forward and pressed herself against him carefully, shuddering as his hands instinctively reached out and held her there. Soon she was rocking slow but tight and hungry between them.

“This alright?” Hastur asked, though he wondered if she could even answer.

Michael pulled herself carefully up by his shoulder. She leaned forward to kiss behind his ear. “You wanted to know what my Bethesda was, Hastur,” she gasped.

Hastur thought of the healing hot water again, realized how painless he’d felt in the current. It hadn’t quite worn off either, even if the alcohol had. “That _was_ you.”

“Then… and now.” 

“But what’s yours?”

“Right here.”

Stunned, Hastur let one hand drift carefully along the scars on her chest and legs. “What do you mean?”

“My Bethesda. My Eden. It’s only been right here, with the two of you.”

Ligur laughed softly at Hastur’s speechlessness, and leaned forward to kiss them both. Hastur felt suddenly drunk and high and something better than both as they fell again into a slow, careful rhythm.

“Bless it,” Michael’s moan creaked deep in her throat.

“Got you praying, have we?” Ligur rumbled. He released her hips and helped Hastur steady himself. “I’ve missed hearing all your lovely songs.”

Hastur was beyond words. He shut his eyes and gave Michael his hands, then offered his mouth. She gasped and pushed her fingers through his hair in encouragement as he set to work with his tongue. And, bless it, she felt so good in him and on and around him as Ligur’s strong hands and arms steadied them both. Hastur fell out of his own thoughts into nothing but feeling as Michael’s moans turned to wordless cries.

An eternity later, Hastur felt the clench in his stomach as Michael tightened around him one last time. At the same moment, Ligur shouted wordlessly and Hastur felt his rhythm double as something released. He sighed as he came down.

At some point, time came back. The lines between the three of them manifested again in the dark, but they were still lying close and warm. Hastur clutched his fingers in Michael’s hair and kissed her hard and deep, then she turned and kissed Ligur. The high sunk down into a soft, cinnamon haze.

“I’ve dreamed, beloveds,” Ligur murmured, “but it was never like this.” After uncounted time, he said, “Michael?” and Hastur heard him futzing with something in a bedside drawer.

Michael turned carefully and planted a deep kiss on Ligur’s neck and another on his chuckling mouth. After a moment, she kissed Hastur again and Ligur kept on chuckling, sincere but careful nevertheless, not to jar his battered ribs.

“Sorry, I…” Hastur didn’t know what he was apologizing for, and Michael kissed him again before he could figure it out. Then he took her hand and felt the second ring there.

“Ought to make it official,” said Ligur. “Hastur?”

“What? Me?”

“Wanted you to be okay with it.”

“After all that, you _still_ have to ask if I’m okay with—”

Ligur’s laugh interrupted him. It winced a little, but he didn’t seem to mind. He tucked the both of them into his arms. “To have and to hold, or something like that human stuff.”

Hastur scoffed. He had his pride. “They limit it, say ’til death do us part.”

“We’ll say ‘always’ instead.”

“If you’re amenable,” added Michael.

Hastur thought back to the dark hotel room, to a bathrobe covered in tacky pink hearts, and he felt his face flush again. He took Michael’s hand tightly in his and brought it up to his mouth, kissed hard at the metal until it made his lips hurt, then he kissed her lips just to taste her again. She pulled back with a gasp and a laugh.

“So…, it’s okay if we stay?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Always. And not just on Thursdays.”

He said it to make her laugh again, and she did, this time a ringing laugh that probably made the stars dance somewhere overhead. Then he settled back onto the pillows and she curled between them.

Letting himself hold and be held, Hastur was grateful for the shadows, but knew the heart he'd too often pretended not to have was finally safe to come out into the light. He’d figure out its shape eventually. But so far as the soundness of that broken vessel went, maybe a few rough edges were okay. He had never felt so full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles are all from various translations of Jeremiah 8, a pretty grim and grave passage with little glimmers of hope, which is pretty much how I felt while writing this comfort fic. For this title specifically, from what I understand, the three birds referenced are believed to mate for life.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for your patience thus far. I hope it was worth everyone's while.

**Author's Note:**

> It annoy me to no end that the country singers I grew up with keep coming out as toxic. I mean, I'm not surprised either, but I read awhile ago that GB had come out as an LGBT ally in the past because of his sister, so that's kinda nice. I'm not sure where he stands on anything else, but decided it's not uncalled for to let angels and demons sing what they want with any human's music, and "Lowly Places" especially struck a suitable chord, so here we are. I hope it gives a few good stitches in context.


End file.
